


Truths Half Told Beget Lives Half Lived

by EllenEmbee



Series: Revelations [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Insecurity, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Madness, Male-Female Friendship, Mild canon divergence, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Nonmage demon interplay, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Self Confidence Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Surrogate Father Relationship, Templar problems, Verbal Sparring, Wordplay, single mother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 162,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9047525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenEmbee/pseuds/EllenEmbee
Summary: Rylen has no illusions that his life will be spectacular in any way. He only wants to be useful instead of sitting on his hands while the world falls apart. The Inquisition offers him that opportunity, but even after months bearing the Inquisition colors, Rylen feels out of place. He can fix any problem his Commander throws at him, but he can't seem to find a way out of his own half existence... or his addiction.Patrice has been abandoned by everyone she's ever loved, and in a moment of blind panic, she ruins her only chance at a better life. When a dear friend offers a place with the Inquisition, for the sake of her children she cannot refuse, but being truthful about her past seems... inadvisable. Trice fabricates a web of white lies to maintain her place, but a shrewd templar with piercing blue eyes could ruin everything with a few, well-placed questions. So she does what anyone would - she makes an enemy of him.It's only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down.**Irregularly updated as I can between chapters in Part 1 of the series.





	1. Smile wide enough and you can hide what's broken

**Author's Note:**

> Since my first playthrough of Dragon Age: Inquisition, I've loved Rylen. He's a smart ass... but ultimately a useful and caring smart ass. I thought he might do well with a fiery, strong-but-troubled woman, but only after they learn to trust one another. That's gonna take a while.
> 
> Trice is short for Patrice and is pronounced like Greece, but with a T.
> 
> This fic relies heavily on the reader being familiar with the general plot of Inquisition as only Western Approach events will be covered in depth. If not, you can play the game (recommended) or head over to Part 1 of the "Revelations" series to read through my Cullavellan fic, The Revelation of All Things (also recommended as there are scenes with most of these characters in that fic).
> 
> I'll also post in the notes where each chapter in this fic aligns with the main narrative in TROAT. Chapter 1 occurs during the end of and just after Chapter 21 of TROAT.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

In the moments of stillness reserved for those who wake before dawn, Knight-Captain Rylen yanked at the straps and buckles of his armor, a mumble of a curse slipping between lyrium-coated lips. The leather and fabric and mail and plate hung uneasily from his shoulders even as he cinched it around his muscled frame and donned a heavy cloak to ward off the bite of late fall in Ferelden. After more than 15 years in templar plate, he questioned if he'd ever feel comfortable in anything else. The Commander seemed to have managed it alright. But still, the itch crept in each time Rylen pulled on the unfamiliar Inquisition uniform - a loose and disconcerting crawl of wrongness over his flesh, as if he didn't quite fit in his own skin anymore.

A shuffling outside caught his attention, and he focused on his armor in favor of dwelling on those dangerous thoughts. When he opened his tent flap, the dim morning light greeted him as did the quiet but efficient workings of his men and women going about their various duties. A soldier approached and saluted him as soon as he stepped from the confines of the tent.

"Ser, I've made sure everyone is up and working. We should be packed and ready to move out soon."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Esthiel. Carry on."

Another soldier began deconstructing his tent as he carried his bags to his horse, and by the time he'd readied his steed for the long ride back to Skyhold, the clearing looked as clean as they'd found it the night before. A few still tended to their horses, but most gathered together near Rylen. They knew from experience that, however brief, he'd have instructions for them.

"Ready yourself some easily accessible provisions," he warned as he pulled himself into his saddle. "We ride for Skyhold, and we don't stop until we pass through the gates. Stay close and in formation. I won't have us taken by surprise."

They mounted up, and Rylen led the way back to the road to Skyhold. He'd sent word a week ago of their success setting up outposts and securing supply lines from Jader and Redcliffe along the Imperial Highway. As planned, the majority of his soldiers remained at the outposts to maintain the peace and ensure the safety of travelers and merchants along the roads. The Commander had responded two days later to call him back to the keep, hints of another mission coded within the younger man's response. The most telling word had been the descriptor "challenging" to describe Rylen's next post.

The Commander knew him well, for Rylen certainly enjoyed a challenge. And he'd found them aplenty with the Inquisition.

The small group rode into the keep a little before midnight, passed off their horses to the stable hands and once again gathered around their captain. They'd left before permanent quarters had been assigned, but as each of them carried a bedroll on their packs, Rylen merely told them to find a warm place for now and report back to him at sunrise.

Rylen pulled his own bags from his horse and looked through the dim yellow light of the torches toward the last place he'd known the Commander to be. Unfortunately, the table no longer sat at the base of the stairs to the upper courtyard. A thick Fereldan accent cut through his contemplation.

"If you're looking for the Commander, he's got himself an office now." Rylen turned to find the gatekeeper pointing at the tower on the opposite side of the gates. The other man then pointed toward the stables. "You can take the stairs around that corner."

"Thank ye… ah… I'm sorry, but I don't know your name?"

"Warwicke, ser. I joined just before Haven fell. I only know you from your armor, Captain."

The itch returned, more an impulse Rylen felt to the tips of his fingers as they curled into a fist. _Knight-Captain_ , he longed to correct. He still signed all his reports and introduced himself as such, but the Commander simply called him Captain. The Inquisitor had followed suit. Rationally, he understood. That was his title within the Inquisition ranks. But the insidious, creeping wrongness remained.

Rylen merely nodded his thanks to the gatekeeper before heading off toward the indicated stairs. He took them three at a time and paused as he considered the closed door. As he'd suspected, light streamed from the sliver underneath the thick wood and iron door, so he placed his packs against the nearby stone wall and knocked loudly.

"Come!" a curt voice replied.

Rylen pushed the door open and closed it behind him to keep out the bitter winds screaming down from the mountain peaks. He turned to find the Commander still hunched over his desk, fingers thrust into his hair, quill furiously scribbling on a piece of parchment. Rylen meandered further into the office, taking in the general air of dilapidation and noting the debris still filling the corners as he waited. Eventually, the Commander's voice called him back to attention.

"Rylen? I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

"We were only a day and a half out. I saw no point in extending the journey."

"No, I don't suppose you would. I appreciate you reporting in, but this could wait until morning if you prefer."

Rylen turned and approached the Commander's desk. He stood at ease, knowing Cullen as well as he did, and Cullen slouched back in his chair, showing the side of himself he allowed few others to see. Rylen mused on that fact, a warm camaraderie building in his chest as he smirked at his friend.

"Aye, but I knew _you_ would be up. So again, what would be the point in waiting?"

Cullen barked out a wry laugh and returned Rylen's smirk with one of his own. "I _should_ be sleeping more as Cassandra and, uh, the Inquisitor recently reminded me."

Rylen nearly snorted out loud in amusement at the red cheeks that accompanied his commanding officer's mention of their leader. He sidestepped the obvious, however, in favor of a more neutral beginning.

"I cannot say I was surprised to hear of you all naming her the Inquisitor. I'd have liked to see the hubbub myself, though."

"She did us proud, Rylen," Cullen said with a far-off stare and a soft smile.

This time Rylen barely contained his amusement. Only Cullen's distant gaze saved Rylen from having to explain the twisted look of repressed mirth on his face. He wrangled his merriment, however, and continued with his seemingly innocuous commentary.

"It seems only yesterday she barely spared any of us a glance as she hid herself away with Harritt or in her quarters," Rylen responded. "Quite a transformation."

"Yes, quite... though I'd argue she had it in her the whole time. She merely needed to begin thinking of herself as one of us."

"Begging your pardon?"

Leaving behind all attempts at feigned disinterest, Rylen moved forward, a curious expression clouding his tattooed face. He'd witnessed Cullen's attachment to the petite mage grow more intense as the Commander followed her around with his eyes - and occasionally with his body as they took their "business-related" walks - during those early days at Haven. Knowing Cullen, however, Rylen anticipated months upon months of quiet pining culminating in the elf leaving them for her home and Cullen retreating into his typical, reserved shell. This kind of insight, however, spoke of something more. Had the two come to some sort of understanding? Rylen found himself hoping, for his friend's sake, it were true.

Cullen sat up in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, further mussing the waves. "I just mean... she thinks of herself as a part of the Inquisition now... or at least thinks us worthy enough to invest her full attention to the cause. Perhaps I'm putting words in her mouth, but since the fall of Haven - maybe even before - she seems... different. More passionate. A-about our cause, of course."

Rylen responded with a distracted hum, ignoring Cullen's slip. He'd noticed the difference as well, but that wasn't what had him absentmindedly playing with a scrap of paper on the edge of Cullen's desk. The itch under his skin, the creeping feeling of wrongness... was it all as simple as feeling as though he didn't _belong_ here? And how could he fix that?

"Rylen?"

Rylen started a bit and dropped the paper curled under his fingertips. He raised his tired blue eyes to meet his Commander's and laughed softly to himself at the concern in his friend's face. He had no desire, however, to air his inner thoughts at the moment.

"The journey must've taken more out of me than I thought. I'm wiped."

Cullen nodded and rose from his desk. "I promised to get more sleep as well, so I ought to do it, I suppose. You can brief me just as easily in the morning. And what I have to say... well, it's best left to the morning as well. The officers' barracks are completed if you'd like to find a bed there. You'll find plenty available."

"Aye, Commander."

With a curt nod, Rylen saluted and left Cullen's office in search of a place to lay his head.

 

**

 

"So, what's this new mission all about, then? Need someone to clear out the bric-a-brac in Orlais?"

Rylen shifted from one foot to the other as he joked with the Commander. Morning sunlight poured in from the door to the battlements as did a fair amount of frigid air. Rylen crossed his arms in front of him and yet again cursed the blasted cold weather as he wondered at the Commander's apparent comfort in such conditions. Starkhaven hadn't been all sunshine and humidity there on the banks of the Minanter River, but he'd never experienced such an unforgiving climate as in these blasted mountains. He shifted again as Cullen's brows lifted, and the Commander shook his head at Rylen in amusement.

"You're more right than you know. I am assigning you to take our first unit into the Western Approach ahead of the Inquisitor. We hope we won't need much more than that, but with the current situation... I am entrusting you with this because I have faith in your good judgment... and your discretion."

Cullen passed over a stack of parchment, and Rylen grasped at the papers, curiosity replacing his earlier irritation at the weather.

"Read through those reports as soon as you can," Cullen continued, "and report back to me. We'll assemble your team and send you off to warmer climes as soon as we can."

Rylen's eyes shot up from the reports, and he cleared his throat in mild embarrassment. "That obvious, is it?"

Cullen laughed out loud, a grin splitting his normally aloof countenance. "I believe your exact words during your first week in Haven were 'Maker's breath, is it always this cold here?'"

"Yes, well..." Rylen grumbled.

"And that was during Cloudreach," Cullen continued, not deterred in the least by his captain's sour looks. "At least the magic of Skyhold seems to keep the temperatures from dipping too low, despite the weather surrounding the keep. But it's only the beginning of Harvestmere, and I doubt even the strongest magic can save us from winter in the Frostbacks. Make your escape while you can, my friend!"

The corner of Rylen's mouth finally lifted into a wry smile. "I suppose I should thank you, then, for sending me to the ass end of Thedas?"

"If you know what's good for you, you will," Cullen retorted good-naturedly.

"Very well, then, Commander, my _deepest_ thanks for sending me from tit-freezing mountains to sweltering deserts."

Cullen snorted and waved him off. "Don't you have work to do? I thought I gave you some reports."

"Aye, Commander," Rylen replied with a rumble of wry amusement. "I'll let you know when I've decided who else to inflict... err bestow the honor of assisting with this assignment."

Cullen just shook his head at Rylen, then picked up his quill to return to work. A moment later, however, he called Rylen back.

"You can't have Rozellene, by the way. I need her here."

He turned back to see the Commander gracing him with thin-lipped smile and a quirked brow, as if daring Rylen to challenge him. Rylen narrowed his eyes slightly, surprised by Cullen's assertion. Surely... surely not? Not with the way he'd been fixated on the Herald... Although he wasn't actually upset about his assignment, Rylen used their mock contention to verify.

"Have _special plans_ for our favorite Lieutenant, then?"

Cullen's face dropped into bewilderment. "Uh... what?"

Nope. Not at all, then. Rylen took a deep breath and rewarded the Commander's confusion with a devilish grin. "Not to worry, Commander. Esthiel did an excellent job with the supply lines. I'd be happy to keep her with me."

"Ah, yes. Very good." Cullen's voice reflected his sudden wariness. The younger man knew instinctively that he'd missed something but hadn't put together quite what, yet. "I'll meet with you later today, then."

"Good day, Commander."

"Good day," came the tentative reply.

Rylen escaped the office to the battlements before the Commander could figure out what he'd been asking... if the standoffish ex-templar actually ever did figure it out. Rylen had been lax on training since Haven, and he had no intention of missing the opportunity to work through a few rounds with the other officers, preferably Rozellene if he could pull her away from her corporal friend. He'd have his report ready for the Commander by this evening and anticipated he'd be off to the Approach within the next three days.

Suddenly, a bitter wind rose up along the battlements, whipped his cloak open and chilled him to his core.

"Not a moment too soon, either," he mumbled under his breath as he wrangled the wind for control of his cloak. "I'd rather be put on permanent latrine duty than spend a winter in this Maker-forsaken keep."

As he took the stairs to the upper courtyard, he resolved to genuinely thank the Commander for his new assignment when they next met. If the job were as challenging as Cullen insinuated, Rylen wouldn't have any time to dwell on the itch under his skin, and that suited him just fine.

 

___________________________

 

"You'll write to me as soon as you can, won't you?"

Trice tried to keep the panic from her voice as she swiveled away from her friend and placed another trinket in a travel trunk. In the fifteen years Trice had lived in Val Royeaux, Nellie had been her rock, her anchor. Now, her anchor had decided to move away, all in the name of "making a difference."

"Of course, my dearest Patrice!" Nellie replied in her soft Orlesian accent as she waved away the necessity of such a question. "Who else will I write to about all the handsome men and women of the Inquisition? I wouldn't dare leave you in the dark."

She waited for relief to roll in with her friend's words, but the panic only rose higher. Quietly pulling air into her lungs became a chore, but for Nellie's sake, she remained stoic as she used a spare dish cloth to wrap the next trinket. She'd never been alone here before. How would she manage without Nellie there to smooth the way for her with all the rich nobles who would otherwise turn up their noses at her? Two children later, she no longer sported the body of a woman who would be courted for her looks - and closing in on thirty years old did her no favors. Her accent, though adopting elements of Orlesian style, still reflected heavily her early years with her mother in Antiva and would certainly not open any doors for her unless she specifically catered her services as a pastry chef to Antivan families. There weren't enough of them in Val Royeaux to make that feasible, however.

"Sorry," Trice responded quietly. "I just... I'm going to miss you."

She restrained the waver that threatened to weaken her voice and valiantly pushed back against the sting in her eyes. She would be happy for her friend. She would not ruin Nellie's moment with her own anxieties.

A pair of plump but strong arms circled around Trice's waist, and Nellie's rounded face appeared on the left as the other woman propped her chin on Trice's shoulder. "You needn't worry, you know. I've got Marcel on the lookout for a proper place for you."

Trice slumped and patted her friends' hands where they rested on her soft belly. "I don't want to be a burden. And you know I have trouble maintaining a single post for any length of time. I simply... I cannot stand being talked down to. Inevitably, the nobles can't keep their mouths shut, and I ruin everything by giving them a piece of my mind. I wish I had your even temperament, Nellie."

Nellie's jovial chuckle shook Trice's entire body as the other woman kissed her on the cheek and released her with a pat on Trice's wide hips. "Bless you, Trice. Tell that to my previous staff. I'm sure they all think I'm a tyrant."

Trice laughed and finally turned to face her friend. "Yes, well, you know I'm not much better. But..." She paused as she swallowed a lump in her throat. "Thank you for being so good to me all these years. I don't think I'd have survived without you. You know that right? You... you saved my life, Nel."

Nellie's brows furrowed as she turned away and busied herself packing a crate of dishes. "Yes, well. You needn't speak of that. As if I'd let my friend drown in her own misery. And we had your new babe to provide for, you know."

 _We..._ even now, Nellie's phrasing wrapped Trice in a warm blanket of familial acceptance. "That's what I mean. Clara wouldn't have survived without you to care for her while I... recovered. I can never repay you for that, and I just wanted you to know..."

She could hold back no longer. The tears poured from her eyes, and when Nellie turned to reveal her own tear-stained face, Trice cried harder. They embraced and cried on each others' shoulders until a small, terrified voice interrupted them.

"M-mama?"

Trice turned immediately and swept Clara from her spot in the doorway. "Oh, darling. Don't worry. We're just sad Auntie Nellie is leaving us, aren't we?"

Clara nodded her head vigorously and then reached out for a tearful Nellie. The older woman folded Clara into her embrace. A squeaky, pitiful voice emerged from the crook of the woman's plump neck.

"Why must you go, Auntie?"

"Oh! You just ask that mean old Marcel."

The five-year-old's head shot up, a confused and slightly belligerent look on her tiny, round face. "But Uncle Marcel isn't mean!"

Nellie laughed as she dried her tears on her apron. "No, no. Of course not, dearie. Auntie Nel is just being silly. We're going to help with an important cause. You know your Uncle is the best at what he does, event planning and all that, and the Inquisition's diplomat, Lady Montilyet, even asked for him by name. They happened to need a chef, too, so... we're both going to help as much as we can."

"The 'quisition?"

"The _In_ quisition, darling," Trice corrected. "They are trying to fix the hole in the sky near Ferelden. Remember when I talked with you and Jacques about it a few months ago?"

Clara nodded slowly, her eyes unsure, and Trice smiled wryly at Nellie over the little girl's head. Clara had no memory of the talk, but Trice knew the girl _wanted_ to remember.

Trice reached for Clara and Nel handed the girl back to her mother, turning to nail the lid onto the final crate. Trice held Clara close for a moment, her despair over losing her friend threatening to overwhelm her. But then Clara dropped her head to her mother's shoulder, reaching back to smooth her little fingers through Trice's thick, black-brown hair.

"You were supposed to stay with your brother, Clara," Trice murmured reprovingly into her daughter's ear. "Where is he, and why did you leave?"

"He's with Uncle Marcel in the cellar. They took me, too, but it was dark. I got scared."

Trice sighed. "Did you _tell_ Uncle Marcel you were scared?"

The girl remained quiet instead of answering, which was answer enough, and Trice allowed the silence to linger. Together, mother and daughter listened to the rhythmic finality of hammer against nail, and Trice began rocking Clara back and forth as a grim sort of sorrow invaded her heart. She recognized the dramatic turn of her thoughts, but she couldn't shake the idea of Nellie pounding away at the coffin of her old life. Trice wondered morbidly if she could be reborn as another, if life would begin anew... or decay into the nothingness she'd always dreaded.

Fear pulled her deeper into the cadence of death, each nail pounded into the soft wood a harbinger of dark endings, of death. Perhaps not her own, but...

Once they began, she could not stem the flashes, timed with the staccato beat of the hammer. Whimpering almost imperceptibly, she buried her head in her daughter's hair and fought against images of dead piled high on battlegrounds, of demons and evil spirits cutting down innocents as they ravished and burned every good thing between the Approach and the Amaranthine Ocean.

The thumping of the hammer - or was it her heart? - grew loud, insistent in her ears. Each flash took her further from herself, and she gasped as Clara was suddenly ripped from her arms and disappeared into darkness. She doubled over, terror clawing for purchase in the soft flesh of her breast, and she scratched at her neck, attempting to release a curdling scream of pain and despair. Her lungs burned, frozen with horror at the vacant eyes, bloodied limbs, burnt bodies surrounding her...

"Hey! Hey there, Trice! Come out of that now! You can't be doing that! Not anymore! You're hurting yourself!"

Nellie's panicked voice broke through suddenly, and Trice found herself crouching on the floor, nails scraping down the raw, bloodied flesh of her neck as she rocked back and forth on her toes. She breathed in violently and fell backward as the sights and sounds of the room came back to her all at once. Clara's crying pierced through her shock first, and she looked up to see Clara reaching for her, tears streaming down the girl's face.

"Mama!"

Trice immediately stood and pulled Clara from Nellie's arms, whispering words as much to herself as to her daughter. "Darling, I'm alright. It's alright. Nothing's wrong. Hush now."

She glanced up through wet lashes to see Nel staring at her with panicked eyes. The other woman's eyes flickered to Trice's throat, and she breathed out shakily.

"I'll get a wet cloth and a bit of elfroot paste for that. Don't... don't let..."

Nellie faltered, but Trice knew what she wanted to say. "I won't. I'll be fine. Honestly, Nel. It hasn't happened in so long... I'm sure this was a one-time thing."

Nellie smiled weakly in what looked to be relief and left the room, ostensibly to find a poultice. Trice carefully kept her expression neutral even as the voice in her head screamed _liar!_ Truthfully, she'd been having the visions more and more often. With the veil torn open in so many places, the episodes that had occasionally held her in thrall throughout her life had become more frequent, more terrifying, more _real_.

"Mama, you're bleeding," Clara's quiet, terrified voice reprimanded her.

"It's nothing, darling," Trice assured automatically. "Mother is fine."


	2. Change can be good... right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice begins planning for a new life on her own in Val Royeaux.
> 
> Rylen falls back on familiar habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs after the declined chess game in Chapter 23 of Pt. 1. Mildly NSFW at the end.

Two days later, Marcel burst into Trice's rented room waving a slip of paper with triumphant flourish. The wide grin on his face betrayed the news before he'd spoken it.

"I have done it! I have found you a position as a head chef with a well-known and quite generous Antivan noblewoman. She is gratified to know that your mother was Antivan-" He held up a hand as Trice started to interrupt. "-And no, I have not revealed your... connections. Only your nationality. You may repay me by making some of those scrumptious berry tarts you know I love so much."

"But how?!" Trice exclaimed as she grabbed the paper from Marcel's hand. "I've been looking for _weeks_ and found nothing!"

"Ah, my dear one," he replied with a wink, "never doubt the effectiveness of a well-placed whisper in a busybody's ear. Madame de Moreau was all too happy to ask around when Madame de Laurent heard from _someone_ that _Madame de something_ had an excellent chef in need of a position. Another well-placed whisper of your name, and _voila_!"

She wanted to be irritated with him, but the slip of paper in her hands drained her of all but praise. "Thank you so much, Marcel. Whatever will I do without you?"

Marcel waved her off. "It will be a few days yet before you need to worry about that. I will see you settled with Madame d'Eriani first. But you will come see us off, will you not?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Trice assured as she took the older man's hands in her own.

Marcel's eyes misted over, but she'd had enough of crying and dark thoughts lately. So she lead him to her small work table and pulled out a box. Marcel's eyes lit up as he lifted the lid.

"Tarts!"

"I was going to bring them by later today, but since you're here..."

Marcel snatched up a tart and took a generous bite. "You _angel_ ," he hummed in appreciation, his eyes closing for a moment of pure bliss. The next moment, he opened his eyes and smiled. "You should get ready. I am tasked with bringing you to Madame d'Eriani's for a private interview."

"What... now?"

Trice's hands automatically flew to her neck in dismay. The scratches had healed over with the assistance of a poultice and Nellie's gentle care, but angry red marks still marred her bronze skin.

Marcel again waved away her concerns and pointed down at the box. "Fill her mouth with a few of these tarts, and I guarantee she won't notice. Besides, I brought you this." Marcel whipped a brilliant streak of fabric from his jacket pocket and wound it around her neck with a flourish. "Put on that dress you made for Satinalia last year. The greens will match perfectly."

Pulling at the end of the scarf, Trice examined the delicately patterned silk. She'd recently seen such scarves on a few of the more fashionable nobles, but had never imagined she'd wear one herself. The lustrous fabric hugged her neck comfortably, and for a moment, she was fifteen again with a closet full of the most fashionable dresses and accessories.

Shaking away the foolish thought, she moved to the mirror and, with a glance, verified that the fabric concealed her shame quite nicely. After shooting Marcel a wink and a grin, Trice danced behind the dressing screen and quickly changed into her best dress, grateful that it still fit her well enough despite gaining a few extra pounds since last Satinalia. When she emerged, she did a quick turn and a curtsey for Marcel.

"How do I look?"

"Ravishing as always, my dear. But we should go. I've already boxed up the remaining tarts." He placed a dramatic hand to his heart. "I will forgo eating them all for the good of the cause."

"You are too good, Monsieur," she said in mock seriousness. "Positively saintly."

Trice curtsied again, and they laughed. Then, she grabbed her cloak and locked the door behind them. Marcel offered his arm as they emerged from her building onto the bustling streets of Val Royeaux. He looked around them curiously before quirking a brow at Trice.

"But where are the children?"

"I left them with Nanette for the day. I planned to pick them up on my way to bring you your tarts, but I suppose I'll pick them up on the way back from meeting with Madame d'Eriani instead. Where does she live?"

"Oh, it's not more than a ten minute walk."

As they strolled along the grand avenues of the city, Marcel filled her in on the gossip he'd learned that morning while finalizing his transition away from Val Royeaux. Trice tried to pay attention, but the crawling anxiety of meeting so suddenly with a woman who might be her only chance at a decent life... her palms began to sweat at the thought. As always, Marcel saw right through her.

"You must not be nervous," he admonished. "She comes highly recommended."

Despite the knots in her stomach - or perhaps because of them - Trice giggled. "Highly recommended? By whom?"

"Oh, didn't you know? We servant-types like to keep score. You've survived thus far on your market sales and by catering my events, but you will now be part of the time-honored tradition of rating your employer. You must pass on your knowledge in order to assist those who have the option of choosing where to work."

Trice's brows shot up as Marcel explained the intricacies of servant and master relations. Even knowing how well Marcel, a commoner, played The Grand Game against his noble employers, she'd always assumed it to be a quirk of his. But as he revealed the secrets of the working class, gratitude rose up inside her at how much he and Nellie had truly shielded her from such things.

She didn't deserve such loyal friends, but she would do her best to make them proud.

 

___________________________

 

Rylen snickered into the back of his hand as Cullen looked up from the map of the Western Approach, eyes narrowed. They stood facing each other, Cullen's desk between them, and Rylen thanked the Maker for the physical barrier between them.

"What is it now, Rylen? Honestly! You goad me into a display with The Iron Bull yesterday, and today you snicker at my explanation of where our soldiers will be placed in Skyhold."

Rylen crossed his arms and gave Cullen a disbelieving look. "First off, that 'display' with Bull got you a full thirty minutes of personal time with our lovely Inquisitor, so you'd best leave off complaining about that. And second, since when did fluffing about with flowers become a priority for our soldiers? Enough that you'd deny me one of the men I've requested?"

Cullen had turned a progressively more brilliant shade of red as Rylen spoke. He scowled at his subordinate, opening and closing his mouth several times to answer before finally finding his voice.

"I'd hardly consider hand-to-hand combat training with the Inquisitor 'personal time,' _Captain_ ," he spat out. "And our soldiers will _not_ be 'fluffing about with flowers.' The mages and healers have requested better access to herbs and various flora to increase the longevity of regeneration potions, improve the effectiveness of our healing potions, and in general assist with keeping our people _alive_. I'd say that's a good goal, wouldn't you?"

Taking note of Cullen's not-so-subtle reminder of his place, Rylen bit back a grumble and stood up a bit straighter. "Of course, Commander. I just don't see why one man makes a difference."

Cullen reached over to a stack of well-worn parchment, threw it down in front of Rylen and pointed to particular line. "According to Rozellene, your man was an under gardener for the King before he joined the Inquisition. The Inquisition is better served keeping him here... for now."

 _Dammit Rozellene!_ The woman's organization and aptitude would be the death of him.

"Fine, then," Rylen relented, running a hand through his thick black hair. "I will still need a soldier to fill that spot. I assume you have a recommendation?"

Cullen leaned forward and handed Rylen a sheet of parchment. This one contained four names, none of which Rylen knew. He looked up, about to ask for a primer on each soldier, but the pained look on Cullen's downturned face stopped him. Confused, Rylen took a step forward. Cullen didn't look up, but his voice, low and serious and _angry_ , surprised the Captain into stillness.

"You and I have developed a more casual way of speaking in the last few months, and normally I don't mind our... discussions as your points are well considered. But I must _insist_ that you refrain from speaking of the Inquisitor in such a way. She is... she..." Cullen glanced up to reveal a deep frown, furrowed brows and flushed cheeks before fixing his eyes once again on the tattered map covering his desk. "She deserves better."

 _Deserves better than what?_ Rylen wanted to ask. Instead, he uttered a quiet, "Of course, Commander," and proceeded to focus intently on the paper in his hands for another few moments. Eventually, the tension eased enough to discuss his replacement soldier and then get on with finalizing the mission.

"So, we'll ride to Jader. Then what?"

"A boat will take you to Val Royeaux," Cullen informed him as he handed over another slip of paper. "Josephine has arranged for horses and supplies and will ensure your contact is waiting at the docks when you arrive. Then, you can take the Imperial Highway until you need to veer west toward the old Warden tower, here."

Cullen pointed to the map, and Rylen's brows shot up as he noted the distance. Even with sea travel and the use of horses, they would be hard pressed to make it there in less than two weeks with so many people and supplies - a challenge indeed.

"Is it wise to send us through Val Royeaux?" he queried. "We'll likely draw attention."

"Josephine has assured me that seventy soldiers kept out of the main city won't cause a stir. And we're much better able to acquire supplies in a city like Val Royeaux."

Rylen nodded, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. "Well. Alright then."

"Do you have any further questions or concerns?"

"None," Rylen assured. "Though..." He paused and cleared his throat. These kinds of admissions never came easy to him. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. I never meant any disrespect to the Inquisitor. You're right. She deserves... she's _earned_ better than that."

Cullen looked a little uncomfortable, a faint smile plastered to his face. He shifted and cleared his throat as well.

"Yes, well... I may have overreacted... a bit."

Rylen gave his commanding officer a wry grin and held out his hand over the desk. "Well, then... we'll agree to do better in the future."

Cullen clasped Rylen's arm. "Good luck, Captain. Keep me informed of your progress as you can. With any luck, Scout Harding will be there to greet you when you arrive in the Approach."

"Aye. I will." Rylen released the Commander's arm and gave him an appraising look. "As it's my last night in Skyhold for who knows how long, how about a drink? I could stand to get pissed early and sleep it off before a long dry spell. We could have a round at the new place... the Herald's Rest is what they're calling it, I think?"

Cullen looked at Rylen warily, but finally nodded and walked out from behind his desk. "One drink. Then I have work to do... and you have a boat to catch."

 

**

 

He should have stopped at the one. Cullen had left long ago after a litany of last minute reminders and a pat on the back. Rylen had then taken up with Krem and the rest of the Chargers, but the later it got, the more Chargers had gradually filed out with the excuse of an early morning. He should have gone back to the barracks then.

Now, he wove his way through the upper courtyard, letting the moonlight guide him and the night air cool his alcohol-fevered skin. Amazingly, he didn't feel cold at all, but drunkenness never had affected him in quite the right way. Where it made others fuzzy and incoherent, he thought and felt things with disturbing clarity.

Things like that Maker-forsaken itch under his skin.

Things like the subtle craving for lyrium, even though he still had hours to go before his next dose.

Things like the familiar, silvery eyes staring him down from the battlement stair railing.

"Evening, Knight-Captain," came a lilting voice.

"Gwin," he greeted in return and course corrected to meet with the willowy woman reclining on the wide rail. "I thought you were scouting in the Hinterlands."

"Sister Nightingale brought me back for a special mission. I leave tomorrow... as do you, I hear. Heading for the Approach?"

Rylen leaned against the opposite stair wall and studied her for another moment before responding, "I am."

She laughed at his reticence - a raucous, joyful sound that bounced off the wall behind him and echoed through the courtyard. The light of both moons illuminated every expression flitting across her pale, freckled face, and he was forcefully reminded of why he'd been attracted to her their first night together in Haven - and why he'd returned to her many times after. He'd had no intention of indulging tonight, but if Gwin were here...

"Care for some company tonight?"

He shifted, a bit uncomfortable at how well she could read him. Even knowing she'd trained directly under Sister Leliana... such things made Rylen nervous.

"You couldn't stay."

"Do I ever?" Gwin retorted good-naturedly as she hopped off the railing and approached him. "Look, Knight-Captain, you don't need to worry. I happen to prefer your company above almost anyone in this keep, but nothing has changed since our first... conversation in Haven. I'm not looking for anything serious."

Rylen felt his entire body relax, muscles uncoiling as a slow smile spread across his face. He reached out and hooked his arm around her waist, drawing her lithe body closer.

"That's good, lass, because I'm not either... though I _am_ interested in your admission of a preference for my company. Care to share why?"

She hummed out a laugh through smiling lips and leaned into him. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, and he closed his eyes to focus on the feeling. Light brushes followed his jawline up to his ear, and she stepped into him, her thigh brushing against him as she straddled his left leg. She rolled her hips, briefly pressing her core into his thigh as she sighed out her response.

"Because most men are selfish concerning appetites of the flesh, but with you, I know the lady always _comes_ first."

Rylen laughed at that, a low, gravelly tone humming through his chest. He felt her shiver in his arms, and pushing up from the wall, he swung her around to press her back into the wall. He placed his forearm against the stone, one hand cradling her head and the other cupping her breast through her leathers as his lips returned the favor she'd recently bestowed. Her skin smelled of embers and horses, prairie grass and dust. He breathed in, gently sucking her earlobe into his mouth and then lightly brushing his lips over the sensitive curve of her inner ear.

"Glad to know my sensibilities are appreciated," he whispered.

Before she could respond, he pulled her hips into his and ground his thigh between her legs. She whimpered in his ear, and he smiled into her skin. He quickly moved to slant his mouth over hers, his tongue dipping in to reacquaint himself with her taste, and he pressed her firmly into the wall, an arm around her waist to keep her stable while she rode his thigh. Her breathing grew ragged under his attentions, finally culminating in a wanton moan as one hand twined into his hair and the other gripped his ass, urging him on. Breaking the kiss, he pulled back just slightly to look into her heavily lidded eyes.

"Shall we adjourn somewhere a bit more private?" he murmured through his own elevated breathing.

"Yes, _please_ ," she moaned.

He moved back, careful to account for the tightness of his trousers, and offered her his hand. She took it with a wide smile and a gentle hum of anticipation, and he gladly traded a night of wrestling with his inner demons for the reality of a warm, willing woman in his bed.


	3. Accidental meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice goes to the docks to see off her friends and encounters some Inquisition soldiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs between Chapters 23 and 24 of Pt. 1.

Trice walked along the docks, alternately peering between ships and then referencing the note in her hand. Clara clutched Trice's other hand and walked demurely beside her mother while Jacques lagged behind. Ever aware of her son's daredevil tendencies, she watched him out of the corner of her eye as she continued her search. When he quietly slid away, his destination obviously a precarious mountain of cargo, she exhaled a quiet, long-suffering sigh. In the last few weeks, anxiety about her and her children's future had steadily piled higher inside her like cracked, dry kindling - at this point, any small spark might set her ablaze.

Leave it to Jacques to test her patience.

"Stay away from those crates, Jacques!" she warned as she turned to face him. "If I have to tell you one more time to stay close, you'll be holding my hand until we get home."

The ten-year-old groaned but moved away from the stack of crates to walk beside Trice. A cool wind blew off the harbor, and she huddled more deeply into her new wool cloak, thankful for the midday sun beating down on them.

"You know I'm only concerned for your safety, Jacques," she explained in a placating tone as her body shuddered from both weather and emotion. "Those crates look unstable."

"I know, Mother," came his petulant reply.

Trice sighed again, this time as an audible expression of her relief that the boy had decided not to fight her. Still, she kept one eye on him at all times as they moved deeper into the docks.

As she wove between piles of supplies and luggage littering the walkway, she had to fight back against a tide of cruel remembrance. She hadn't set foot on the docks of Val Royeaux since the agonizing, month-long journey from Antiva almost fifteen years ago. Expecting to be greeted warmly by her father's mother, she'd been met by a servant instead. When later asked why, her grandmother had replied in a scandalized tone that "proper ladies don't show themselves at the docks."

Even then, she'd understood the words for what they were - a subtle jab at Trice's mother, who had often taken Trice to the docks in Antiva City. So went the joyless meeting that would set the tone of the next three years of her life.

"You mustn't let the sadness overwhelm you," she whispered to herself, struggling to keep her head above the flood of memories. "You know what will happen if you do."

A disturbance further down caught her ear. Already on high alert, she nervously peered between a few more ships, noting the dock numbers were at least headed in the right direction. Unfortunately, they seemed to be leading her toward the disturbance. A large number of men and women in matching uniforms stood on the docks as well as on the deck of a large ship, and as she came closer, she observed a similarly uniformed man and the ship's captain arguing heatedly.

"Someone is meeting us here," the man in uniform explained in a lilting Marcher accent, "but he hasn't arrived, yet. Give me a bit more time!"

"If you've forgotten, I have a schedule to keep, _templar_!" the ship's captain retorted. "You and your soldiers must disembark immediately."

"We have no destination! Surely you can wait-"

"I already have passengers waiting to embark for the journey back to Jader, ser. Your people are in the way and causing a commotion. Move them now!"

As the two continued to fight, Trice cautiously angled herself between a couple of soldiers. She hissed at Jacques to remain close and managed to get a clear line of sight to the boat's dock number. Her brows rose in surprise and dismay. This appeared to be her destination, but where were Nellie and Marcel? As if in answer, Marcel's distant voice rose up from somewhere behind her.

"Pardon me, monsieurs, but I couldn't help noticing your dilemma. May I be of some assistance?"

Of course, Marcel would offer his assistance in such matters. Trice turned to search for him, but the soldiers crowding the dock dwarfed her five-foot frame. She moved in the direction she'd heard Marcel's voice and almost thought she could detect his polite "pardon me" drawing closer.

Suddenly, her world tilted as something solid impacted her from behind. She gasped and lost her balance as well as her grip on Clara. She registered Clara's whimper and Jacques' belligerent "Hey!" even as strong arms wrapped around her waist and righted her with a quick tug.

"Begging your pardon, lass. I didn't see you there."

Unheeding of the rough and vaguely familiar voice in her ear, she frantically grabbed for Clara, just as desperate for contact and reassurance as the little girl. As she turned to face her assailant, whose arms were only now retreating from her waist, warm fingers slipped into her free hand. She looked down in surprise to see Jacques holding onto her and glaring up at the man in question. She fought back a small smile at her son's protectiveness and lifted her gaze as well. Brown-black eyes collided with cool blue, and she instantly recognized him as the uniformed man arguing with the ship captain.

"It is of no concern," she breathed, winded from the recent impact. "I've had worse on many a market day, I can assure you."

He stepped back and gave her a shallow bow. "Regardless, I hope I haven't caused any permanent damage, madame."

His face broke into a crooked grin, and her heart gave an uncomfortable thud inside her chest. He wasn't even all that handsome, but something about his voice, his manner, the rugged line of his scruff-covered jaw, the cut of his uniform... Maker knew she had a weakness for a man in uniform.

Bitter memories rose up at the thought and killed off any fanciful imaginings she might have otherwise indulged. She tilted her chin up in defiance of his charm.

"None whatsoever," she breezed. "I am not the sort of woman who would be injured from something so inconsequential."

A mischievous glint appeared in the man's eye, and he cocked his head. "What sort of woman are you, then?"

Her bravado faltered, and she looked away as if attempting to see through the thick wall of soldiers around her. "The hearty kind. But please, don't let me keep you, ser."

The man gazed at her a moment more before finally turning away, but instead of moving forward as she expected, he maintained his place next to her and waved at someone over the crowd - likely Marcel. Suddenly, his gravelly, accented tones filled her ears.

"Soldiers! Make way!"

She watched in awe as his voice cut through the crowd like a ship through calm waters, men and women parting in a rippling wave of motion to leave him standing alone in the cleared area of the dock. She backed away with the soldiers, pulling Clara and Jacques with her as she watched him from the corner of her eye. He stood a full head taller than her, and his stance reflected a calm confidence she envied. His lean figure spoke of a lifetime in active service, and he carried an aura of authority, as if he knew all the answers to your problems if only you would ask. Four thick lines of ink pulled straight down from his lower lip to curve around his stubbled chin and jaw, and another thin black tattoo ran down the left side of his aquiline nose, echoing the shape of bridge and nostril.

As her gaze moved up his tattooed face, her cheeks flamed when she found him staring at her in return. He lifted a quizzical brow, and she quickly averted her gaze to the opening left by the soldiers. She had no business appraising him in such a way! And in front of her children, no less. She sighed in relief when she heard Marcel's voice around a bend in the docks.

"Come Nellie. This is our boat."

"But how will Trice find us in all this mess?"

"She's a clever girl, my love. I'm sure she'll find her way to us."

Trice smiled at the compliment just as Marcel and Nellie appeared around the corner.

"Ah! There! You see! Trice already awaits us."

Marcel walked over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to introduce himself to the uniformed man. Nellie occupied the space vacated by her husband and gave Trice a squeeze before gesturing around her.

"Would you just look at this mess? The Inquisition certainly could use my Marcel's expertise."

Trice looked about her with new eyes. "These are Inquisition soldiers?"

"Oh, yes, my dear. They traveled _from_ Jader and we are traveling _to_ Jader. It all seemed to work out quite well."

The soldiers milling about seemed restless, and Trice wondered at their purpose. Their uniforms were far too light for winter in Val Royeaux, so she deduced they must be heading North or West into warmer climates. The sight of so many soldiers passing through to further reaches sent a stab of fear piercing through her. Could the capital city be in danger? She'd witnessed the Chantry Mother publicly denounce their supposed Herald of Andraste several months ago, but nothing had prepared her for the Lord Seeker's assault on the Mother and subsequent abandonment of the city. Without the templars' protection, they had few defenses.

She repressed a shiver at the thought.

A sudden cool emptiness replaced Jacques' hand in hers, and she watched the boy slip away. A sad smile turned up the corner of her lips, however, as that same hand found its way into Marcel's. Trice pushed back against the burning in her eyes and gave a watery snicker as Jacques continued to glare menacingly at the Inquisition captain - whose gaze she studiously avoided by reaching down to pick up her daughter. Clara immediately wrapped her arms around Trice's neck and began playing with the green scarf Marcel had given her a few days ago. Still self conscious about the red marks that had yet to fade from her neck, Trice had once again donned the fine fabric to appear in public. Thankfully, her new velveteen dress and everknit wool cloak from her employer meant the scarf didn't appear quite so out of place.

"Auntie?"

"Yes, my dear," Nellie replied.

"When will I see you again?"

Nellie met Trice's eyes over Clara's head and then turned back to address the little girl. "Well... I don't know exactly. But I'm sure it won't be too long."

"Auntie Nellie will write us letters," Trice offered. "It will be just as if she'd never left us."

"I highly doubt that," Clara stated with grumpy confidence.

Trice grinned even as Nellie stifled her laughter and expertly maintained a matter-of-fact tone.

"Well, I will do my best to send you pretty stories and interesting tidbits from where I'm going as long as you promise to mind Madame d'Eriani's tutor and learn your letters. Then, you can write me back."

Clara's eyes lit up at this and turned her wide gaze upon her mother, one hand shoving under the scarf to wrap around the back of Trice's neck while the other cupped her mother's cheek. "Yes, mother? I could send a letter all my own?"

"I think we could manage that... _if_ you promise to learn your letters."

Clara yelped in joy, nodding enthusiastically with her entire body and gripping at the soft fabric under her fingers as she threw herself backward. Trice had to use both hands to catch Clara's wriggling, ecstatic body even as the slick green fabric slipped from her neck, caught in a gusting harbor wind and flew away into the bright blue sky.

 

___________________________

 

"Good afternoon, monsieur. My name is Marcel Guerin. I assume from your uniforms that you are Inquisition soldiers?"

"Yes. I'm Knight-Captain Rylen. I was to meet someone here at the docks who would lead us to our supplies and horses. From your questions, I gather you are not, in fact, our contact."

"Alas, no. However, I am recently under the employ of the esteemed Lady Josephine Montilyet and am even now on my way to Skyhold. I would think assisting Inquisition soldiers would be an excellent way to begin my service."

"Thank the Maker," Rylen breathed.

The older man opened his mouth to continue but paused to look down with a warm smile. Rylen followed Marcel's gaze to find the brown-haired, brown-eyed boy from earlier glaring up at him once more. If the boy hadn't seemed so serious, Rylen might have laughed.

As it was, his mind turned to the boy's comely guardian, and he glanced over his companion's shoulder to watch her pick up the dark-haired girl. He pegged her accent as Antivan, even with the Orlesian quirks, and the children looked enough like her that he guessed her to be their mother. Her brazen appraisal of him moments ago, however, had him wondering if she were possibly a widow of the Orlesian civil war - plenty of them about these days. Regardless, she painted a pretty picture - smooth, hazelnut skin, plump curves, expressive black eyes and shining black-brown hair. Suddenly, her lips turned up in a joyful expression, and Rylen added winning smile to the list.

"Ser?"

Rylen cleared his throat as his eyes darted back to the older man. _Keep your mind on your business, Rylen_ , he admonished himself.

"Not to be rude, my good man, but if you have not yet begun your service, what assistance could you possibly offer?"

Marcel had the graciousness to laugh at Rylen's poor manners. "I assure you, I am well versed with the ins and outs of Val Royeaux. I can direct you and your troops to a secluded location while I find out what happened to your contact."

Rylen felt the tension coiling in his shoulders begin to dissipate. "I'd like to go along with you, if you don't mind."

"That can be arranged, but I will need-"

A scuffled behind Marcel caught Rylen's attention, and he glanced over in time to see the woman push her daughter into the older woman's arms and run off after a scrap of fabric that had, up to now, been wrapped firmly around the woman's neck. Rylen didn't think. He merely took off after her, watching the fabric zig zag across the docks, buffeted by the winds off the water. From the direction of the wind, he anticipated it would either be entangled in the rigging of a ship or be blown toward the less savory area reserved for cargo ships. Neither place would be safe for a woman who didn't know how to defend herself.

"Stay back!" he called to the woman. "I'll retrieve it!"

She either didn't hear him or ignored his words. Grumbling under his breath, he ran after her, dodging netting and crates. She nearly caught it once, but another gust blew it up and out of her reach. The floating green material wafted up and over a cargo ship, and she followed, disappearing around a bend. As he'd feared, they'd ended up far from the passenger docks, and Rylen picked up his pace, surprised by the speed and agility of the petite woman.

When he rounded the corner, he found her on her toes, stretching her body in an attempt to grab at the fabric now wrapped around a tall pylon. Rylen jogged toward her, his eyes darting to the couple of sailors also closing in on the oblivious woman. Ire stoked by her earlier disobedience of his commands, he almost wished they would attack and give him reason to work off the anger in a more productive way. Instead, they melted away, leaving him to contain his temper on his own.

"Eh, there," he said as he leaned over her. "Allow me."

He easily reached up and retrieved the scarf, taking another calming breath before looking down at his quarry. He'd already opened his mouth to make a scathing quip about slippery grips and dangerous docks, but the sight that greeted him left him speechless.

Jagged red lines criss-crossed the woman's neck in a horrific display of mutilation. He'd witnessed his share of traumatic things during eighteen years with the Order and more recently with the Inquisition, but the juxtaposition of Orlesian finery with these violent marks turned his stomach in a whole new way.

She avoided his gaze as if she knew what she'd find there and ripped the scarf from his hands. Green silk blocked out the sight of those awful marks, and he roused himself from his speechlessness in time to at least offer her an arm.

"I... eh... should we head back, then?"

Her eyes rose to the level of his nose as she curtsied and then took his arm. "Yes, thank you, ser."  
  
When they'd bantered after he'd stumbled into her, her voice had been soft and melodic yet sharp with wit. Now, the monotone of her reply chilled him.

"Rylen's the name. Knight-Captain Rylen."

"My thanks for your assistance, Knight-Captain."

No name. She obviously had some sense of caution. Considering what hid behind that thin piece of foppery, he began to wonder if her chase hadn't been more a result of panic than a lack of intelligence. Still...

"My pleasure, madame. However, I feel compelled to warn you that running off by yourself in these parts of the docks is not altogether safe."

"I... yes. I am aware. I was not thinking clearly."

Her eyes rose a little further and touched on his briefly before falling to the path ahead. Rylen felt a strange jolt in the vicinity of his chest.

"My apologies for delaying you," she added, her voice softening slightly.

Rylen used the excuse of helping her around some crates to delay a response - nevermind the fact that she'd had no trouble traversing the path at four times their current speed only moments ago. In the quiet, his senses became attuned to her - every whispering breath, every minute movement of her hand on his arm, every soft swish of that silken fabric around her neck...

He couldn't take it. Everything in him wanted to fix it. Whatever it was, he _knew_ he could fix it. And if that meant beating the bloody hell out of the bastard who'd done such a thing to her, well, he could use the distraction.

"Madame, I must ask..." he began, but Marcel's breathless voice cut him off as the older man ran up to them from the direction of the boat.

"Ah! Here you are! My dearest Trice, you gave us quite a scare. Are you alright?"

Rylen saw her give him a sidelong glance before delicately releasing his arm to take the hands Marcel offered. He detected only the slightest strain in her voice as she responded in her previous, melodic tones.

"Oh, yes. Quite. The Knight-Captain assisted me in retrieving the lovely gift you gave me. I couldn't bear to part with it."

Rylen looked to Marcel, his suspicions now running rampant. Did this man know something about... Trice's injuries? Or had it been an innocent gift now used to hide her horrible secret? Marcel's gaze landed on Rylen, and he watched the older man for any signs of guilt. Instead, he found only impatience.

"Now, shall we be on our way Captain? In your absence, I've arranged things with the ship's captain. Nellie, my wife, will show your soldiers where they may gather while we go find your contact."

Rylen nodded, his suspicions shoved aside in favor of getting back to the problem at hand. It wasn't his business, anyway.

As they hurried back to the boat, green fabric flashed in his peripheral vision, and a cavernous pit formed in his stomach.

When they reached the ship, the woman... Trice... curtsied again without meeting his eyes and joined Marcel's wife where she stood next to Lieutenant Esthiel. He nodded to his lieutenant, and she nodded her understanding. Then he turned to Marcel.

"Let's be on our way, then," he said gruffly.

His soldiers walked on down the docks, and Marcel beckoned Rylen in the opposite direction. Unable to help himself, he looked back in time to see a wave of soldiers swallow up a sinister flash of green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the scarf thing is a bit trope-y and romance novel-esque... but I'm OK with that. It's a fun way to set up stuff for future interactions (both obvious and not so obvious) and reemphasize that they both have a lot of growing to do.
> 
> There will be a bit of a break in this story until I catch up on Part 1. I've got a few fluffy chapters to go in TROAT before Evana heads off to the Approach, which is when this story will pick up again.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Ravens in the service of the servants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice settles into her new life and receives word from her friends in the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs before and during Chapter 33 of Pt. 1.

Trice's new employer turned out to be an older Antivan woman who simply loved food. She'd directed Trice to "be creative" in her dishes, and to that end, Trice was given leave to experiment with ridiculously rare and expensive ingredients and hire staff to assist her. Trice gathered a few trusted friends from her many years working in Val Royeaux and instructed them on proper preparation for Madame d'Eriani's breakfast and luncheon, allowing Trice to focus on dinner and supper. The older woman rarely required anything more from Trice than a review of the next day's menu to make any suggestions or changes based on personal preference. Madame d'Eriani had even hired a private tutor for her children who kept them busy throughout the afternoon and evenings to allow Trice to focus on her work.

And so Trice found herself at her own leisure for the first time in many years. She spent the mornings with Jacques and Clara walking through the city, allowing the children to play at parks and occasionally buying an interesting ingredient if she came across something at the morning market, but mostly just enjoying her new-found freedom. Nearly a month into her post, she could finally acknowledge Marcel had been right all along. The sense of security and safety that sailed off into the distance right along with Nellie and Marcel returned in gentle waves, gradually seeping into her consciousness to shore up her battered confidence.

Nearly two weeks after that day on the docks, a letter finally arrived, dated a week past. Trice retreated to her rooms in near the kitchens to devour the short letter.

 

_11 Harvestmere, 9:41_

_My dearest Trice,_

_I cannot explain to you how much I miss you. I hope you are well and that your Madame is treating you well. Marcel assures me she is the most kind-hearted noble you will ever find in a city like Val Royeaux, though apparently she plays the game with flare. Watch yourself, as always, my dear._

_We only just arrived yesterday, and Trice, I know you will not triumph when I say that Skyhold is... not what I expected. The keep is rather dilapidated, and though the soldiers and masons continually work on improvements, nothing can hide the rustic bones of the place. Not yet, at least. It does have a certain charm, however, and I can see myself settling in nicely once more modern amenities have been installed. I hear the apostates taken in by the Inquisition have been tasked with structural renovations as well as construction of a proper bath house. Maker be praised for that as everyone here could use a good scrubbing._

_And what do you think? Now that I am well away and you cannot attempt to talk me out of it, I have determined to find out more about that captain who so gallantly came to your rescue on the docks. Don't frown like that, darling. I'm only having a bit of fun._

_Sorry to be so brief, but as I said, we've only just arrived. I'll certainly write when I have more to tell. Please write back and let me know how you and the children do. You can post any letters with the directions I've provided below._

_All our love,_

_Nel and Marcel_

 

Despite her initial grin of joy, Trice indeed found herself frowning at Nellie's teasing. Her dear friend knew her too well, it seemed. In the past two weeks, Trice's thoughts had occasionally drifted to those piercing eyes, that lilting Starkhaven brogue - a silly crush for some silly girl, not a matronly mother of two. She could hardly be surprised by the attraction, however, considering her proclivities.

She decided to ignore the comment completely and instead wrote back with all the details of her position and assurances that she had been well-treated so far. She thoroughly praised Madame d'Eriani for providing the tutor for her children. Trice's own education had been quite thorough, begun in Antiva and finished in Val Royeaux, but even now, with her precious free morning hours, she worked more hours a day than not. Trice had once suggested to Madame d'Eriani that she would like to pay for the tutor's services. The look of horror at such a thing had Trice backpedaling quickly.

"Education is the answer to society's ills, my dear girl," the grand lady had lectured in a thick Antivan accent. "I will do my part to ensure your children receive at least the minimum training in reading and writing and basic sums. And I won't hear another word of payment. You feed my soul, and I will educate your children."

Smiling at the memory, Trice folded her letter, addressed it using the directions Nel provided and gave the letter to the butler, Monsieur Baron, to send off. Now she had the proper address, she would speak with Monsieur Julien about letting the children use a few moments of their lessons to write letters to their Auntie Nel and Uncle Marcel.

A smile still gracing her lips, she waltzed back into the kitchen to prepare her newest masterpiece.

 

**

 

Considering the first letter had taken more than a week to reach her, the unexpected arrival of Monsieur Baron in the kitchens three days later left Trice trembling in fear. A messenger boy shuffled in behind, and instantly, tendrils of panic rose from the depths at what such a thing implied. All the things that could have possibly gone wrong flashed through her brain, each worse than the one before. Tendrils slithered upward, constricting her heart and restraining her logic, but she pushed back. She could not fall again. She _must_ not.

The messenger - though in truth, the dirty young man looked as unlike a proper messenger as could be - seemed calm, however, as he handed over a piece of rolled parchment. Monsieur Baron, a rather stoic man in his sixties, merely bowed after sending her an arched brow to imply they'd be speaking of this later.

"I'm to wait here for a reply if you'd like," the boy advised.

"Oh... yes, of course," Trice replied breathlessly, her stomach clenching in anxiety.

She ripped the letter open then and there, every muscle in her body singing with tension as she skimmed the first paragraph.

 

_19 Harvestmere, 9:41_

_Trice (and Clara and Jacques, too, of course!),_

_Darling! Wonderful news! Marcel has received permission to include my little letters with his missives to Val Royeaux. He sends letters via raven almost every other day now as the Inquisition prepares for the ball in Halamshiral, so our letters will travel as quickly as a bird can carry them. I am so excited to hear from you - I assume you've already responded to my first letter, but I have not yet received it. Won't it be fun if your second letter arrives even before your first?..._

 

Trice's hands dropped to the kitchen table, and she leaned over it for support, the letter crumpling slightly as the built-up tension slowly drained from her body. Her muscles turned to jelly, tears threatening at the edges of her vision. She breathed in and out, counting each breath, focusing on the action until her heart calmed.

"Y-you alright there, Madame?"

Trice raised her head to the young boy and nodded. He nodded in return, a hand he'd reached out to her dropping to his side once again. She pushed up from the table, willing her legs to be firm enough to hold her weight, and began reading again.

 

_... I've finally met the Inquisitor, and Marcel will not begrudge me this - I must say that she is lovely and well-spoken, even if she is an elf. You know we have never been the type to use the vulgar phrases for elves that many of the others in Val Royeaux would, but here in Skyhold, it is very nearly a punishable offense. Rumor has it that I've got her to thank for my position - her worship apparently found evidence that their former cook had been beating his staff, most of whom are elves, of course. I've heard some of the templars make reference our Inquisitor in that way, but I just turn my nose up at them and make it known they won't be receiving extra rations if they insist on language such as that. They shape up quickly when they know their food supply is in danger, let me assure you._

_Marcel is enjoying his post under the watchful eye of Lady Montilyet. She is sweet but shrewd - clearly a mistress of The Grand Game - and she treats Marcel with kindness. I will love her just for that, but I'm not sure if you knew - Lady Montilyet is Antivan! I have made mention of you, but she doesn't seem to recall or wasn't present at Madame de Gilberte's fete last season in which your little tarts were adored by all._

_In all, I am far better satisfied with Skyhold after a week within her walls, especially as they completed modern latrines a few days ago with magical waste elimination (I know you'll forgive talk of such vulgar things). The bath house is next on the list. I never thought to be so thankful for mages, but with a few heating runes, we'll have a hot bath whenever we like with no carting of water or waiting for kettles to boil! Can you imagine? Only the richest nobles in Val Royeaux can compare with that!_

_I will end with this. If you thought you'd seen handsome men before, you would be mistaken, for Commander Rutherford, the Inquisition's military advisor, is like a golden god. I may have been walking by the practice area while he trained soldiers the other day. Andraste's holy sword, he's a strapping young man. Of course, if rumors are to be believed, the Commander's heart already belongs to our lovely Inquisitor. But no matter, for I've news about your Captain._

_Apparently, Captain Rylen is the second in command for the Inquisition! Unfortunately, he's been stationed in the Western Approach for the foreseeable future, due to some unknown issues occurring there. But the warmth with which the soldiers replied to my inquiries - well, he is highly respected, if not quite so beloved as the Commander. It's unfortunate he'll not be back in Skyhold for some time. But I am nothing if not resourceful, my dear._

_Truly, you must stop frowning so. You'll wrinkle._

_Marcel tells me my letter has gotten quite long enough. He sends all his love to you and the children. Give them a thousand kisses from their Auntie Nel, and I hope to hear from all of you soon!!_

_Nellie and Marcel_

 

Trice sighed, a smile touching her lips by the end of the letter despite the continued teasing and the weakness still haunting her limbs. She pulled a swath of parchment from her desk in the corner of the kitchen and wrote out a reply as quickly as possible.

 

_Nellie and Marcel,_

_Forgive the shortness of my letter, but the young man waiting for my reply seems in a hurry. It is comforting to know you will only be a raven away should we need to speak about anything serious. As it is, I would charge you, Nellie, to keep your inquiries regarding certain captains of the Inquisition to yourself. I think you know how well I like the idea of a soldier for a lover - the answer, of course, is all too well, which is why I must avoid them at all costs! Now that you've goaded a reply from me, I hope you are done with your teasing on that subject._

_I'm glad to hear of Skyhold's increasingly pleasing amenities. Perhaps Madame d'Eriani will go on vacation sometime soon so that I might visit you. It's only wishing, of course, but I do miss you both so very much. The children send all their love and have written you letters of their own, which I am attaching here. Please thank Lady Montilyet for her kindness in allowing Marcel this liberty._

_All my love to you both,_

_Your Trice_

 

She attached the letters Monsieur Julien had helped the children write yesterday, rolled up the parchment and sealed it. She showed the boy the kitchen entrance and instructed him to bring any further messages there, hoping to avoid any bad blood between herself and Monsieur Baron. In return, the messenger instructed her where to leave any messages she wished sent to Skyhold. The boy then took off like a streak of lightning, and Trice returned to her work.

Like clockwork, as she sent up Madame d'Eriani's dessert - tonight an apricot cream torte with fruit fresh from the morning market - Monsieur Julien descended the back stairs with Clara and Jacques following behind him meekly. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with the tutor to see how he managed that, exactly. The sandy-haired man nodded solemnly and bowed to her as he always did.

"Good evening, Madame. Your children have been wonderful students today as usual." He then turned to Jacques and Clara. "Children, I will see you tomorrow afternoon. Be on your best behavior for your mother tonight."

"Yes, Monsieur Julien," the children replied in unison.

He nodded in satisfaction. "Off to your room, then."

The children burst into motion, like caged birds finally freed from their prisons. Thankfully, they remained relatively quiet outside the clacking of their shoes down the hall to their shared room. Trice looked after them, a fond expression softening her face. A quiet shuffling of feet reminded her she was not alone, and she turned to see Monsieur Julien regarding her with a small smile of his own. She returned the tutor's gaze while arranging her expression into a neutral mask.

"And how were they really?" she inquired, allowing a small smirk to briefly pull at her lips.

He hummed out a short laugh. "So you ask every day, but I assure you, Madame, your children are rather extraordinary. Jacques has an insatiable curiosity, and today I used that curiosity to his advantage by challenging him to solve a mystery of how the country of Ferelden came to be. It required hours of research in the library, but he finally came to me with a quite accurate and detailed report. Clara seems best motivated by her desire to write for herself, her own stories and especially her own letters to her Aunt Nel. I find them both to be avid learners, provided they receive adequate exercise in regular intervals between lessons."

She still hadn't quite come to terms that the children given glowing reports by their schoolmaster could also be the same children who'd tried her patience by playing a game of "hide from Mother" at the market that very morning. She'd been nearly paralyzed with panic until Clara had grown bored of the game and revealed their hiding place behind a statue on the edge of the market square.

Trice looked down to find her hands tangled in her apron at the mere thought. She disentangled a hand to place it over her racing heart, breathing in deeply while shaking her head.

"I'm pleased they are such excellent students, but I still find it quite... well... unbelievable."

She looked up to find Julien watching her closely. She stood a bit straighter as he bowed his head in acknowledgment of her words.

"Children often act differently with an outside authority figure than they do with a parent. In addition, I am paid to give them my undivided attention, something I doubt you had the resources to accomplish before... ah-" He seemed to falter, his eyes dropping briefly before rising to meet hers once more. "Forgive me, I do not mean to imply you are not an attentive mother. I simply meant-"

"No, please, Monsieur," she interrupted, "I take no offense at your words. It's true I've not been as attentive to their education as I should."

He smiled again, this time crinkles appearing at the corners of his grey-blue eyes, and she suddenly understood why Clara called him a kind-looking man. In the month she'd known him, he'd never smiled at her in such a way, but perhaps he simply liked children better than adults.

"Well, I am sure you have employed your time in worthy pursuits." She gave him a slightly sheepish look, and his smile widened. "Would you not call providing food and shelter for your children a worthy pursuit?"

Now she blushed. What had her children told this man? A sliver of panic wormed its way into the otherwise warm feeling his smile ignited in her chest. He must have seen something in her face, or perhaps she'd tensed enough for him to notice. He took a step back and bowed again.

"Until tomorrow, Madame. I believe Clara has a story she'd like to read to you tonight, and Jacques can update you on the history of Ferelden if you're of a mind to listen."

She bowed in return. "I can't wait."

Monsieur Julien suddenly graced her with a rather dashing smirk and disappeared out the kitchen entrance. Trice's brows rose of their own accord, and she tried to dismiss the action as one of adult camaraderie rather than... something else. Pulling off her apron, she followed after her children and found them already in their sleeping clothes, each working at their desks - Jacques pouring over a map of Ferelden and Clara tracing her finger over letters of a favorite bedtime story they often read together. At her entrance both children looked up and smiled.

"Mama!" Clara exclaimed, jumping from her seat to wrap herself around Trice's legs, "I made a story for us! Monsieur Julien told me you'd like it. You will like it, won't you?"

Trice furrowed her brows as if seriously considering the question. "I don't know. Perhaps you ought to read me your story so I can tell you for sure."

Clara immediately grabbed Trice's hand and pulled her along to retrieve her "book" from the desk. Trice picked up Clara's brush as well, taking note of the extensively colored pages with Clara's haphazard handwriting scrawled across them. They moved to Clara's bed, and Trice pulled the little girl into her lap, following along with her reading and helping her with little hints as the brush rhythmically slid through Clara's silky, shoulder-length black hair.

When Clara finished her story, Trice praised the original tale of a horse with a magic saddle that would instantly take a person wherever they wished to go in the blink of an eye. Clara, of course, had chosen to visit her Auntie and Uncle. The Skyhold of Clara's dreams apparently contained a lot of fluffy rabbits.

"I'd go to a lot more places than just Skyhold," Jacques commented as Trice helped Clara snuggle into bed.

"Such as?" Trice encouraged.

"Why, everywhere, I guess. I looked at a lot of maps today, and mother, why did you never explain how big Thedas is?"

Trice frowned in thought. "I suppose it didn't occur to me. But the world is quite large. It took me three weeks to sail from Antiva City to Val Royeaux, and we had smooth sailing with perfect weather."

Jacques eyes flashed in interest. "Will you tell me about Antiva, mother?"

A stab of longing cut through her at the thought of the city in which she'd spent her happiest years. Of the mother who'd been taken from her far too soon. Of the father who had sent her away without a second look. She understood now - he'd tried to protect her from his poor choices, his debt. But back then, she only knew the pain of one lost parent, the hurt of being discarded by the other and then the horror at learning of his murder not six months later.

"Yes, but not until you've researched Antiva on your own, as you did with Ferelden."

Instead of the sour look she expected, Jacques' face lit up with interest. "Madame d'Eriani is Antivan as well, isn't she? I bet her library will have all kinds of books and maps about Antiva!"

Trice had no time to let her shock at Jacques' excitement settle before Clara's hand pulled at her skirts and attention. She turned to the girl, whose face shone with the kind of joy only a child could muster.

"Mama, I just remembered! It's almost Satinalia!"

Trice smirked at Clara's assertion. "You _just_ remembered, eh?"

The girl grinned and nodded her head furiously even as she looked into her mother's disbelieving eyes. Trice shook her head but played along anyway.

"And what shall we do for Satinalia, then?"

"I hope we can eat a big fancy meal of our own," Jacques supplied.

Clara placed a delicate finger against her chin as if thinking very hard. Then, she burst into another wide grin, holding her arms out for a hug.

"We should open presents!"

Trice couldn't help laughing. She sat on the edge of the bed and enveloped her precocious child in her arms, squishing the squirming body to hers as her heart filled to the brim with a quiet joy of her own.

"I suppose we'll just have to wait and see," Trice teased.

Her children knew her better than that, however. Clara released her mother, a content sigh escaping her lips as she settled down into her blankets with thoughts of presents no doubt filling her brain. Trice looked over at Jacques, and he grinned at her before turning back to the book on his desk. She stood and moved to look over his shoulder.

"A book of Fereldan customs?" she murmured quietly so only he would hear. "I had no idea you found history so intriguing, Jacques."

"I didn't either," he returned in a slightly louder voice. "But Madame d'Eriani's library... mother, have you _seen_ it? It's giant! I had no idea there were so many books in the world."

"Indeed? You've piqued my interest. I'll have to go see it sometime."

"I can take you," he offered in the lofty voice of an almost-eleven-year-old who thought he knew quite a lot about the world.

She held back her smile as she replied very seriously, "I'd like that. But for now, you may stay up reading only until I'm back from speaking with Madame d'Eriani."

"What are you going to talk with her about?"

"I'm not sure," Trice admitted, "but I assume it will be in regards to the upcoming holiday."

Jacques just nodded and went back to his reading. Trice slid a hand through his hair, a fond smile gracing her lips. These moments became more precious to her with each passing day - the rare interludes with no distress, no fighting. Just a sense of rightness and completion that manifested in the quiet breathing of her children, their family of hearts beating in perfect time with one another. She'd found them a true home where they could learn and grow - or rather Marcel had found it - and she felt blessed beyond measure.

Sighing quietly, she finally left her children's room to seek out Madame d'Eriani's after-dinner parlor. The older woman had sent a summons shortly before dinner, and Trice had no further reason to delay. Although she could think of no reason to be nervous, the knot of anxiety that tied her up all too easily formed in the pit of her stomach. Knocking quietly on the parlor room door, she took a deep, calming breath and entered the room when bid to do so.

"Ah, Trice. Excellent. I must speak with you about the coming months."

"Of course," Trice replied, the knot loosening slightly. "What do you wish of me?"

"You might have heard that I will be spending Satinalia away from home?"

"I had not, my lady."

"Ah, well, obviously I will not require your services during that time. However, I do like to give a little something to my staff during the holidays. Madame de Lafayette tells me I am too soft, but I find a loyal staff worth preserving, especially when every little advantage counts in The Game. I'm sure you understand."

Trice bowed, the knot of anxiety giving way to curiosity. "Of course, my lady."

"What I'd like requires a bit of extra work on your part, however. I want you to prepare a Satinalia dinner for my staff and their families. I will compensate you at double your typical salary for this month."

Trice's eyes widened, and she only just prevented from her mouth hanging open like a gawking child. Double her already far too generous salary? For two days of work? Madame d'Eriani's raised brow finally drew her from her stupor.

"A-ah, yes! Yes, of course. Jacques was hoping for a feast."

The older woman clapped her hands together in a rare show of joy. "Excellent! Now, another thing. I will be attending the ball at the Winter Palace during the second week of Haring, so you will have that time free. However, I will be throwing a large First Day dinner party that will require all your considerable talents. As Marcel has abandoned me for that Inquisition of his, I've hired the services of a Monsieur Albert Dubois. You will work with him to ensure a dinner the nobles won't soon forget."

"I will do my best, my lady."

Madame d'Eriani flourished her hand in a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes. I have no doubt. Good night, Trice."

"Good night, Madame d'Eriani."

Trice bowed herself out of the parlor and nearly skipped down the hall to her rooms. The full weight of the dinner party would crash down upon her later, she had no doubt, but at the moment, she felt lighter than she had in months, possibly years. With the double salary for next month, she'll have made more in two months than she had in the past year. Considering she had very few expenses - her food, housing and the children's schooling covered by her employer's generosity - she could save her money at a rate unheard of before. How much could she save in a year? Two? Could she save enough to buy a small house in the country? A place all her own?

Trice checked in on the children, and then entered her own room to sit down at her writing desk. She had much to tell her friends and swift ravens to convey the message. Trice took a moment to marvel at the turn her life had taken and silently vowed to hold on to it with everything she had before she leaned forward and set her pen to paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! This chapter got too long to divide between perspectives, so next chapter will be devoted entirely to Rylen's POV. After all, it's only fair. :)
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!


	5. A reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor arrives in the Approach and brings a few of Rylen's friends along with her. Dancing, drinking and joviality ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs during and after the end of Chapter 34 of Pt. 1.

Rylen had learned early on to limit troop activities during the hottest part of the afternoons, but even by mid morning, the sand radiated a nearly unbearable heat as they marched across the literally Blighted wasteland. Wind whipped sand around their feet, into their eyes and up any crevice or cranny it could find. They soldiered on, however, with Rylen at the lead and kept their complaints to a minimum. Varghest and Venatori weren't going to hunt themselves, after all.

They'd been in the Approach for almost two weeks now, and each day brought a new trial. The one bright moment - the discovery of a massive keep at the edge of the Blighted lands - had quickly dulled when they discovered the bandits swarming the walls of the ancient Warden structure. Even with his well-trained troops, he couldn't take the Keep without risking their foothold in the area. He'd have to wait for the Inquisitor and her companions. Thankfully, he'd received word that she would arrive within the next day or two.

"Captain!"

Rylen turned to see one of his corporals approaching with a small group of soldiers.

"What is it, Corporal Soren?"

The woman stopped in front of him and saluted. "Scout Harding says the varghest at the water supply are giving them trouble again."

"Well, let's give them some trouble back, eh? Is Lieutenant Ruthien back from clearing out the nearest Venatori encampment?"

"Aye, ser. She's back at the camp treating the wounded. A few of the men got burned pretty badly."

Rylen let out a displeased grunt, his eyes turning out to look over the vast expanse of nothingness as he grumbled under his breath, "Blast it all! We're already running low on healing potions."

"Begging your pardon, ser?"

Rylen looked up from his internal calculations of supply rations and blinked at the Corporal. What had they been talking about? _Varghest? Yes, varghest. Maker's breath, it's hot out here._

"We'll be there to assist as soon as we can. Have the remaining soldiers stay close to their assigned camps. The Inquisitor should be arriving soon, and I want us to be ready to offer her support if she needs it."

"Yesser!"

The Corporal hurried off with her orders, and Rylen turned his attention to the varghest... again. The beasts holding their fresh water supply hostage had seemingly doubled their efforts in the last few days. Typically, Rylen would send in a large group of soldiers to coax the beasts away from the water, which would allow other soldiers to collect a supply of water and get out of harm's way. So far, the tactics had allowed them to avoid any injuries, but Rylen's patience wore thinner with each altercation. They needed a permanent solution, but as with the Keep, Rylen couldn't risk soldier's lives when the Inquisitor might need them to hold off the Grey Warden threat. His hands were tied... for the moment.

They arrived at the pool to find the varghest circling the edge of the water while, in the distance, a group of soldiers gathered around the wagon full of empty water barrels. Were the beasts actually learning their tricks? Regardless, they must have water. Rylen circled around to the wagon, apprised the soldiers of their intended tactics and set upon the varghest.

It took more than two hours to get all the barrels filled, and in the meantime, they managed to kill one of the varghest. The victory came with a price, however. Two of his soldiers had been badly injured.

Rylen's unit finally made it back to the base camp, water and injured in tow, and most soldiers headed directly for shelter from the early afternoon sun. As he directed the unloading of the water into their blockaded supply tents, Harding approached, but he held up a hand before she began speaking.

"Begging your pardon, lass, but I need to see to my injured soldiers. Unless this is an emer-"

"The Inquisitor arrived late this morning," Harding interrupted without hesitation. "She's out with her team looking into the Grey Warden issue as we speak."

Rylen instantly focused all attention on the freckled dwarf. "Does she need assistance?"

"I don't believe so. Warden Stroud and Hawke have been sighted in the area."

"You'll update me if that changes?"

Harding nodded once. "My scouts will keep an eye on the situation and report back. Also, I've got my next orders, so I'll be heading out the day after tomorrow with a group of soldiers unless the Inquisitor requests otherwise."

Rylen looked down at the sand between them and grimaced before raising his gaze back to her. "It's been a pleasure working with you these last weeks, Harding."

"Now don't go soft on me, Captain," Harding chided with a smirk. "It'll ruin your hardass reputation, and then the troops will start wondering if I'm _really_ 'the nice one.'"

"Hardass!" he replied with a bark of laughter. His expression turned solemn even as his eyes twinkled in suppressed mirth. "I'll have you know I'm quite the charming gentleman when I wish to be."

Harding’s lips twitched as she snorted derisively and marched off to attend to her duties elsewhere. Looking after her with a ghost of a smile on his face, he felt a pang of regret that she would be leaving them so soon. He enjoyed her company... especially her sarcasm.

"Maker protect you," he murmured under his breath. "With any luck, we'll share our newest outrageous stories over a drink soon enough."

With a deep breath for fortitude, Rylen wiped at his brow, looked around him to ensure everything was in order and then headed off to check in on his injured men.

 

**

 

"It's good to see you again, Captain. How have you been holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, Your Worship. Better now that you and your team have arrived."

The Inquisitor gave him a friendly smile as she sat down next to him with her small portion of the evening rations. He'd not had much chance to get to know the elf before now, but harsh conditions such as these were a great equalizer. And anyway, she seemed to buck tradition and ceremony whenever possible in favor of getting the job done. He liked her all the more for it.

Heat still radiated off the sand, but without the harsh sunlight, the evening almost felt cool. He threw another log on the fire, gathered up his own rations and sat down beside the Inquisitor to eat.

"I'm sure you've heard by now that Lieutenant Rozellene is on her way with a large contingent of soldiers as well as supplies?" she questioned.

Rylen nodded as he chewed on a bite of venison jerky. "The Commander's message arrived a few days ago. She won't be here for quite a spell, though, as she's taking the Imperial Highway." Rylen grunted in wry amusement. "Funny that. He originally told me I couldn't have her for this mission. Said he needed her there in Skyhold."

He shot her a sidelong glance to judge her reaction, but her expression only reflected mild interest. "Oh? Well, I believe she's meant to return with me when we head back."

"Ahhh. Well, there you have it. Always a catch. She's his best, though, so I don't blame him for keeping her close."

The Inquisitor hummed quietly and remained silent through the next several bites. He snuck another glance and quickly took in her tense jaw and pensive expression. Her next comments, however, revealed her thoughts had turned in a different direction than he supposed.

"I understand you and Harding have had some time to scout out the keep. Any ideas on how to take it?"

Rylen wiped his hands on his pants and leaned back against the rock behind them. "Well, with you here, that changes things a mite, but I recommend catching them off-guard if possible. There's a magically sealed cave underneath the keep, and I think it might lead to a way inside. If so, I recommend a frontal assault as a distraction while a small team infiltrates the keep from that point. I assume you can deal with magical barriers?"

She nodded. "We'll look into it tomorrow, then. Be ready-"

"Ah, my dear," a smooth voice interrupted, "you may want to reconsider that plan if you wish to avoid insurrection."

Rylen and the Inquisitor turned to see Dorian lounging in the sand on her opposite side. He winked at Rylen and then turned his attention to the elf whose lips had turned down in a frown of confusion. She looked back and forth between Rylen and Dorian, eyeing the men warily.

"And why is that?"

Varric spoke up as he sat down on the other side of the meager fire. "Come on, now, Snowflake. You can't be serious?"

She shrugged, eyes open wide and hands spread in a clueless gesture, clearly annoyed that everyone expected her to simply _know_. Rylen held back his own surprise and bit of mirth at her ignorance, reminding himself that before the Inquisition she'd likely interacted rarely with humans and had no reason to learn about or observe Chantry holidays.

"Will someone please just _tell_ me," she finally exclaimed with an irritated huff.

"Tomorrow's Satinalia, boss," Bull chimed in as he joined their group.

Her mouth gaped open and then clicked shut as vague recognition dawned in her expression. "Oh. Right. Josie mentioned something about... that's the human holiday of gift giving?"

"More a _Chantry_ holiday, but close enough," Varric supplied. "And the best gift you could give your dedicated troops is one day away from Venatori raids, wild animal wrangling and demon hunting, right Captain?"

Varric turned his gaze to Rylen as did the Inquisitor, and the curious and open look in her eyes encouraged him to be honest. Knowing exactly how hard his troops had worked to maintain this foothold in miserable conditions, he'd feel like a heel if he didn't fight for this, especially when he really had nothing else to offer them.

"It’s true I’ve told them they can have the day unless you have need of us," he admitted. "Not much here by way of celebratory feasts and libations, but a day of rest would do these men and women a world of good. They've worked hard for you these weeks past."

The Inquisitor gave a curt nod. "Very well, then. We'll look into assaulting the keep the day _after_ tomorrow."

Her lips lifted in a small but earnest smile, and Rylen gave her a wide, grateful one in return. "Thank you, Your Worship. The men and women will be mightily glad of it."

"I'm curious to observe your celebrations," she remarked. "I know your supplies are limited here, but I've only ever heard vague accounts of Chantry holidays. Are religious observations typical?"

"Aye, I planned to lead an evening service for those interested. I often did in the Circle."

"Good," she stated thoughtfully, almost absently, as she drew her knees up and leaned forward to wrap her arms around her legs.

After a brief lull in conversation during which the Inquisitor seemed to curl in on herself, Dorian popped up, held out his hand to the Inquisitor and exclaimed, "Well, now is as good a time as any. Up, up!"

The Inquisitor groaned but limply raised her hand. Dorian caught hold and pulled her to her feet.

"None of that, now," Dorian chided. "It was your wicked advisor who sent me to this Maker-forsaken wasteland. If I must be miserable, so must you be!"

She huffed and narrowed her eyes at the other mage, but he just smirked at her in return. She seemed to resign herself to whatever inevitability awaited her, and Dorian walked her a little away from the fire to set up in a… dance formation? Intrigued, Rylen sat up straighter and watched as they bowed to each other and began a complicated set of steps that took them all around the campsite. Rylen had almost no experience with dancing, being first the son of a stonemason and then in the service of the templars for most of his life, but he could appreciate beauty and grace when he saw it. Slowly, the men and women gathered around the nearby fires quieted, and Dorian's rhythmic humming and the intermittent pop and crackle of the campfires became loud in the stillness of the desert night. The two dancers stopped and started again a couple of times, and Rylen noticed the high color on the lithe elf's cheeks. _Embarrassed to have an audience, no doubt._

Finally, they bowed to each other amidst fervent applause, the dance seemingly over for the evening, and the Inquisitor turned in for the night after a subdued goodnight to himself and her companions. Rylen remained by the fire, and a companionable silence fell over the group before Bull and Varric pulled out flasks and Dorian produced a bottle of wine from somewhere. Rylen shrugged and jumped up to grab his own stash of his favorite liquor from his tent. Tomorrow was a holiday, after all.

"So, Rylen," Bull intoned after they'd each taken long pulls from their chosen beverages, "how's it really going out here?"

Rylen shrugged. "Not bad, but it'll be better if we can take that keep from the bandits. Right now, it’s all we can do to protect our supplies and keep the hostile forces at bay. Having someplace like Griffon Wing Keep under our command... well, I'd sleep better at night, I can tell you that."

"I noticed you've got your troops back at camp during the hottest parts of the day. That's a good strategy for this kind of environment."

"So glad you approve," Rylen said with a wry smile and a hint of dry sarcasm. Familiar with Rylen's cheek by now, Bull chuckled as Rylen continued in a more serious tone. "Seemed like the logical thing to do. I've never quite experienced a heat like this, but it's a far sight better than the blasted Frostbacks."

"Here, here!" Dorian cheered as he raised his bottle. "The sand and wildlife is atrocious, but the heat feels like home."

"We had heat in Kirkwall, but it was the kind you drown in," Varric added, a note of nostalgia coloring his tone.

"Oh, aye, same for Starkhaven. Often felt like I was breathing water on those sultry summer afternoons," Rylen reminisced.

"You miss it?"

Rylen turned his eyes to the fire, contemplating Varric’s question. Did he miss Starkhaven? He'd never really thought of it in such terms. He missed the familiarity of his duties in the Circle, the weight of the templar armor hanging from his frame. But as he pondered, fond memories of his former home came back to him as well - the scent of prairie grasses wafting from the plains, the arches and spires and marbled halls of a city known for its architecture, the laughter of his siblings and their families as they gathered for the occasional family dinner - when his duties allowed.

"I suppose I do," he offered slowly, the burn of the whiskey causing his eyes to water as he quickly took another swig.

"Yeah. Me, too," Varric responded with a sigh. "It may be a shithole, but it's _my_ shithole."

Rylen chuckled weakly, an uncomfortable ache pulsing in his chest even as the itch under his skin manifested with a vengeance. If he worked hard enough, long enough, he could ignore it, falling into his bedroll every night so exhausted he dropped into sleep immediately. In these quiet moments of idleness, however...

Without warning, the image of a bright green scarf flashed through his mind, and he scrambled to hold onto the memory, leaving the itch to fade into the background. Here was another uncomfortable puzzle. Almost a month later, the lovely Antivan woman, Trice, and her hidden pain had yet to dim from his thoughts. The strength of his reaction to her predicament - whatever it might have been - still confused him, as did these occasional, unsolicited thoughts of her.

He took a longer pull on his flask, and fell deeper into himself, letting the conversation flow on without him. The moons shone brightly in the night sky, drowning out the stars, and his eyes unfocused as he stared up at those two familiarities. At least he had that. Wherever he went, the moons would follow, a reassuring connection to what he'd once had. What he hoped to find again.

A swift kick to the bottom of his boot brought him back to the present.

"Hey, Rylen. You weren't in on the pool, were you?"

Rylen straightened and tried to keep the confusion off his face, but the strange sharpness of his typical buzz couldn't make up for weeks of hard conditions and little sleep. He shrugged.

"Don't recall that I was."

"Hmmm, well then you probably won't care, but Dorian won."

He gave up on attempting to fake understanding. "Won what, exactly?"

"You didn't even _know_ about the bet?" Varric asked in surprise. "Where have you been?"

"Well, all around Ferelden, mostly. But many a night in the Rest with you all, as well. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were holding out on me."

Bull chuckled. "Maybe we thought you were too close to the source."

Rylen furrowed his brows. "Alright, now I'm really going to need you to catch me up. Did we have a pool on whether our unflappable ambassador will ever lose her composure?"

"Nothing so interesting," Dorian deadpanned. "No. We simply had a wager on how long it would take our Inquisitor and her Commander to admit they simply can't live without each other."

Rylen grunted. "So they managed it, eh? I wondered when I left if they weren't nearly there."

"See? Too close."

Rylen raised his brow at Bull. "And you all aren't close to the other side?"

Bull just grunted in return, and Rylen shook his head, a wry smile contorting his face. The smile shifted into a satisfied grin as the others continued to talk around him. If Cullen needed anything, it was a good woman at his side. Rylen didn't know the Inquisitor all that well - doubted he ever would - but even he could recognize her caring and dedication to making things right. He'd have to make sure to include a sly aside in his next missive to Skyhold.

"Welp, I'm out," Varric lamented as he turned his flask upside down in front of him.

Bull held out his own bottle. "I could top you off."

"Don't fall for it," Dorian warned. "Whatever is in that flask will do more damage than good, I can assure you."

Bull snorted. "Just because you can't hold your liquor…"

"I beg your pardon! I most certainly can. That swill is meant to strip paint, not be consumed."

Bull took a good long swig, keeping his eye on Dorian the whole time. The mage turned up his nose, but Varric held out his flask.

"Hit me. I can't be left out of the morning hangover grumbling."

"Sorry I can't be more hospitable," Rylen said. "But you all get me that keep, and I'll make sure the fastest supply lines possible keep us well stocked in the future."

"Deal," Bull agreed with a raise of his flask.

The four men took a drink together and carried on long into the night. And for the first time in months, there in the immeasurable, untamed desert, Rylen felt a moment of rightness in the comfort of familiar friends in unfamiliar places.


	6. Keep your head on straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Rylen each struggle separately with their own demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs between Chapters 34 and 35 of Pt. 1.

The days preceding Satinalia flew by in a flurry of preparations. Madame d'Eriani left three days before the holiday and planned to return in two weeks. The housekeeper, a Madame Toulouse, had outlined the deep cleaning that would occur while the mistress had gone away, but the restless staff dawdled and dreamed of the short time they'd be allowed away from their duties. Most, however, did not choose to leave the residence. Rather, they took up their employer's generous offer of a holiday feast and brought their families to the great woman's house.

The meticulous and ever watchful Monsieur Baron denied them access to the upstairs, of course, but he and Madame Toulouse had worked miracles, nonetheless. Trice emerged that morning after a small gift exchange with her children to find the giant storage room next to the kitchen transformed into a festive dining area. Innumerable tables and chairs littered the wide space that had been decorated with fresh boughs of pine, bright blue and silver swaths of fabric on the tables and draped from the walls and a smattering of snowflake-shaped papers tacked up for a festive feeling.

She and her staff worked the rest of the day, her children helping in their small ways and thankfully not hindering progress. As she added sugar and whipped up the last batch of cream into beautiful, pillow-like peaks, the kitchen staff settled the meats, vegetables, layered pies both sweet and savory, and every other manner of dish into steaming chafing dishes. Only the piece de resistance still simmered in the oven - a fish and egg pie Madame Toulouse had specifically requested for her husband, a "quiet man from Starkhaven who often feels out of place in Val Royeaux," the older woman had explained. Trice, wishing to ingratiate herself with her colleagues, had readily agreed and gone about finding a proper recipe for the dish though she'd never made it before.

"Is everything in order Madame Millier? The rabble is becoming restless."

From the doorway, Monsieur Baron's deep voice boomed over the already festive sounds coming from the room next door. A few of the staff had brought instruments, and the joyful carols played on even as the crowds piled into the room talking, laughing and shouting greetings across the room. Trice turned toward him to find a hint of a wry smile on the older man's face. She blinked and then gave him a tentative smile in return. Would wonders never cease?

"Nearly," she called in return. "One final pie to go. Let me check on it."

She pulled a towel from her shoulder and opened the oven door. The pie smelled surprisingly good for such a simple dish. She'd resisted the urge to spruce it up with spices not included in the original recipe. This dish had a purpose... a goal, even.

One by one, she'd make them all love her through her cooking.

The corner of her mouth lifted at her silly internal melodrama, the urge to laugh in a ridiculously villainous way nearly overtaking her good sense. Instead, she focused on the pie, testing the middle as the recipe had instructed. The knife came out clean.

She whipped around, pie in hand, to place it on the table with the others and then looked up at Monsieur Baron. "It's time!"

The older man turned from the doorway and boomed his voice into the other room. "Alright you heathens! Settled down now and line up in an orderly fashion, if you please."

Laughter followed by the sounds of scuffling for a place in line floated through the door. The sounds were so loud that she nearly missed the soft voice behind her.

"You have outdone yourself. This looks magnificent."

Trice turned to find Monsieur Julien smiling at her. He stood a respectable distance away, but she suddenly felt a bit claustrophobic. She bustled around him to pick up the bowl of whipped cream she'd discarded and began scraping it into a waiting serving bowl.

"You'd best get in line, then, or you'll not taste a bite!" she warned.

She glanced at him and smiled in return, doing her best to keep her tone neutral... friendly. He took a step closer, and for some reason, her heart kicked up into a faster rhythm.

"Madame, I-"

The boisterous entrance of the staff cut off his words, and she shrugged apologetically. He tilted his head toward her, seemingly unperturbed, and with that same smirk from a few nights ago, he grabbed a plate. She heard the other staff heckle him for cutting in line, but the comments were good-natured enough, and he returned their jibes in kind, a smile in his eyes and laughter in his voice. She looked down at the fish and egg pie to hide her own smile, and as she listened to the clamor around her, she absently wondered what the schoolmaster had wished to say.

The thought fled her mind at the entrance of Madame Toulouse. Trice waved the other woman over and showed off the pie.

"Oh, dearie!" Madame Toulouse gushed. "That looks perfect! I'm sure he'll love it."

"I'm so glad," she responded, a well of emotion threatening to overflow inside her chest. "If it's not up to standard, though, please tell him to let me know. I'll keep making it until I get it right!"

Madame Toulouse laughed and patted Trice's shoulder. "He wouldn't dare say a word, but I'll know by his face. I'll be sure to report back. Many thanks!"

"Of course," Trice said with a little curtsey. "Consider it my Satinalia gift to you."

As the rest of the staff flowed through the kitchens, gradually picking each dish clean, Trice plated up some food as well. She'd let Jacques and Clara join the fun in the other room when her scullery maid had promised to keep an eye on them. She only hoped they'd behaved themselves for the sweet woman.

She found Jacques and Clara in the other room sitting with a group of other children at the feet of Monsieur Julien. As she drew near, his soft tenor swelled with excitement. She handed off the plates to her children and drew back but found herself as captivated as the children by his riveting story of a princess who managed to commandeer a pirate ship and become the most feared pirate on the Waking Sea. His voice undulated, taking on the quirks of various characters, and as he described a particularly thrilling sea chase, she felt her heart beating rapidly in time with the pacing of his voice. At the very moment the pirate princess confronted the other pirate captain, Monsieur Julien raised his eyes to Trice's wide, enraptured gaze... and winked at her.

She drew back, her face heating as she ripped her gaze away. Fear beat a rapid staccato beat against her ribs as her eyes darted around the room to ensure no one had seen the highly improper action. All eyes turned either toward the storyteller or toward their own groups of merry making. No accusing eyes stared back at her, warning her of coming retribution or the loss of her cushy place in the household. In fact, she witnessed one or two mildly indecent things happening in the darker corners of the room, and her olive skin flushed even brighter red. An unsettled feeling, like standing on solid ground after a long sea journey, crept into her consciousness.

Despite her embarrassment, the sound of Monsieur Julien's voice continued. She dared not look at him again, though. The story eventually reached a child appropriate ending with the pirate captains making a pact to do each other no harm in the future. The children begged for another story, but Madame Toulouse came to the man's rescue by shooing the children off to their parents. Clara quickly appeared at Trice's feet, and Trice scooped her up while Jacques passed by, raising the empty plates in his hands as an explanation of his intentions. Clara laid her head on Trice's shoulder, and Trice considered putting her down for the night. But the singing hadn't even begun yet, and she knew Clara would love to listen to the carols.

"Did you enjoy the story?"

Trice startled, and Clara's head popped up. When she saw Monsieur Julien, however, she yawned, uninterested, and laid her head down once more. Trice's eyes swept over his casual dress, easy smile and slightly ruffled hair, and she swallowed, allowing Clara's actions to delay her response. She tilted her chin up and averted her gaze as she answered.

"It was certainly interesting. And so detailed. Do you have a pirate princess among your acquaintance that you are so well-versed on their habits?"

"Perhaps I do," he answered with laughter in his voice. "Although she likes to refer to herself as an Admiral, and she isn't really a princess. The gist of the story is true enough, however."

Trice's brows rose of their own volition, and she gave him a sidelong glance before averting her gaze once more. "Even the ending?"

Monsieur Julien laughed, an abashed tone coloring his voice. "Ah... well. Perhaps they did not come to quite so amicable an agreement as portrayed in the story."

"So she offed him, then?"

Still, she kept her eyes away from him, and she sensed his unease growing from the timber of his voice, the awkward shift of his feet.

"Pirating is a ruthless enterprise, after all."

She couldn't help the short huff of laughter that escaped her tight control. She tamped it down and calmly observed, "You keep rather interesting company if you are friends with pirates. I admit, I wouldn't have expected it of you."

"We all of us have our intrigues, I suppose," he replied tentatively. Another shift in his stance, a slight clearing of his throat. Then, "I apologize if I made you uncomfortable during the story, Madame Millier."

Her heart leapt in her chest. Whether born out of fear or something else she couldn't tell, but she could not pretend to misunderstand him. Her eyes touched on concerned blue-grey for a brief moment before sweeping out and over the merry makers surrounding them.

"It's nothing, I assure you. I simply... am not accustomed to... to such things."

"Indeed? I am surprised," he admitted in a hopeful tone. "I would think a woman as beautiful as you would be used to attention."

Heat rushed to every part of her body. How long had it been since someone called her beautiful? Even as she basked in the knowledge he found her thus, the unsettled feeling grew stronger. What would she do if he were actually serious? How could she possibly dissuade him without making things awkward? Self-deprecation would only sound as if she were fishing for more compliments. She needed to imply - perhaps a white lie if necessary.

"Well, now you know," she responded in the lightest tone she could manage. "And, gentleman that you are, you'll be more careful in the future, I'm sure."

A long pause ensued during which she became sorely tempted to turn her eyes toward her companion. From the corner of her eye, she could see he'd turned his body toward the revelers as well. They looked like two acquaintances merely conversing about the party, the food, the weather. A shiver snaked down her spine, and she adjusted Clara's increasingly slack body in her arms. Finally, his voice, so low she nearly missed it, reached her ears.

"Am I to understand, then, that you are... spoken for?"

Trice let out a little gasp and instantly cleared her throat to cover the sound. It had worked! Would it be a lie to respond in the affirmative? Technically... no. He'd given her an out. For his sake, she had to take it.

"I am," she replied in a tone brooking no further questions.

"I see," he said slowly.

The disappointment in his voice nearly made her want to take it all back. After all, despite his dubious interactions with supposed pirates, he was a respectable man - kind, good with her children, intelligent, good-looking, humorous. In short, the kind of man any woman in her position should be falling all over herself to encourage.

All the more reason to keep him at arm's length. She simply couldn't risk it.

"I apologize heartily, then, for my improper behavior, Madame Millier. I most fervently beg your pardon. I assure you it won't happen again."

A heartbeat passed. Then two. She turned her head slowly, afraid to witness the anger, the coldness in his eyes. In fact, his cheeks bloomed with color, but his stormy eyes held nothing but that same disappointment tinged with embarrassment. A weak smile graced her lips, and she nodded to him, willing him to understand.

"You have nothing to apologize for. You didn't know. I do hope we can be friends, though?"

A flicker of a smile came and went as he bowed to her. "Friends. Of course. If you'll excuse me, I must be away for the evening. I will return on the day after tomorrow to resume lessons."

She bowed in return, and he passed by her on his way out the door. Just as he reached it, Jacques came barreling in from the kitchen. Monsieur Julien barely avoided the boy, but instead of scolding him, he gave the boy sorrowful smile, a ruffle of his black hair and a word or two. Jacques nodded his head in agreement with whatever his tutor had said. Then, with a brief look back at her, Monsieur Julien walked out of the room.

Bitterness swept through her, deep and potent and achingly familiar. Far worse than the knowledge that she would ever be required to turn away honest, good men like Monsieur Julien was the knowledge that she'd done it to herself. Her future belonged to her past mistakes, no matter how hard she worked to leave them behind. Like a tenacious pirate princess, they chased her down, murdered her possibilities and left her perpetually alone.

Suddenly, voices rose up in the warmth of an over-full room as the music turned to an old favorite. Lanterns glowed cheerily all around the room as the harmonious sounds of the season filled her with a fleeting calm. Clara snuggled deeper into Trice's neck, and Trice tightened her grip as her eyes sought out Jacques sitting with a couple of other children near the band, singing and laughing.

No. Not truly alone. She'd made sure of that. And while she had breath in her lungs, she would keep them safe and protected and by her side. No matter the cost, no one would ever take them from her again.

 

___________________________

 

Despite the late night, Rylen rose at dawn the next morning to take care of the duties his soldiers would normally accomplish. The cool desert air brought a sense of solace after a restless night, and the draught of lyrium quelled the discomfort - both physical and mental - that came more and more often these days. Unlike his counterparts, however, Rylen had never increased his doses to compensate, not liking the way the lyrium muddled his thoughts and interfered with his ability to clearly think through problems.

He'd thought about it, though. Every day the cravings hit him earlier, and his strength and templar powers lessened incrementally. Not enough to be noticeable to anyone else. But _he_ noticed. And his skin felt less and less like his own.

The quiet, simple work calmed his mind, and he fell into a sort of trance, going through the motions as the sky gradually lightened around him. Soon, the Iron Bull appeared and quietly began assisting. Varric came out next. Then the Inquisitor emerged from her tent and took on a share as well. By sunrise, the leader, companions and Captain of the Inquisition had started the breakfast fires, tended to the horses, double checked the supplies and started cooking. A few early risers joined them in the next hour, though they all expressed gratitude for a day off of Rylen's "rigorous" pre-dawn training routines. Dorian finally appeared an hour after sunrise.

"You should look into actually providing shelter for your troops, Inquisitor," the mage groused as he plopped down beside her in the shade of the rock outcropping. "Those flimsy nightdresses of the tent world will only result in tears and pain."

"Yours, I assume?" Rylen ribbed.

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "And just how are you so chipper after all that liquor? I saw you stumbling to your tent last night, and here you are... all... sunshine and roses."

Rylen chuckled. "Some of us can apparently hold our liquor better than others, right Bull?"

Bull raised an imaginary glass. Dorian snorted his displeasure even as a stifled laugh came from the Inquisitor's direction. Dorian shot her vicious look, and in return she wrapped her arm around him and laid her head on his shoulder affectionately.

"I'll make sure we send better supplies as soon as I can," she assured her disgruntled friend. "In fact, if you have writing supplies and an available raven, Captain, I should probably send an update to the advisors."

Rylen supplied her with the required materials and then sent her message off when she finished. They sat in the shade as the sun rose higher, the temperature rising with it, talking and laughing like the world wasn't falling apart around them. Behind his small talk, Rylen's mind shifted this way and that as he worked through all the issues they needed to address in the coming days. He subconsciously kept tabs on all his soldiers, noting those relaxing in the shaded areas, the ones who had yet to emerge from their tents, and the ones who couldn't seem to stop working, despite permission to relax. His foot tapped a steady rhythm in the sand, a physical manifestation of his desire to do the same.

"...a feeling our Captain is eager for the holiday to be over."

Catching the last half of her statement, Rylen turned his gaze to the Inquisitor and studied her a moment before responding. A familiar flash, a kindredship, in her blue-violet eyes smacked of sympathy, as if she too had trouble sitting around when they had things to do. He decided then that even if this were as much as he ever knew of his leader, it would be enough to follow her to the end of this miserable war.

"I'm so used to having a running list in my head of all the things we have to do. Can't seem to shut it down."

Her eyes faded off into the distance before returning to him sharply. "I understand."

"I believe you," he replied.

A genuine smile lit up her delicate features, and suddenly, Rylen had a glimpse underneath the shell of the Inquisitor to the woman his Commander had fallen for. A knowing smile turned his own lips upward.

"Then perhaps Your Worship would like to take a ride? Perhaps in that direction?"

He gestured toward the bandit infested keep, and her smile widened. "That sounds like a lovely idea, Captain."

"Finally!" Bull exclaimed. "Something to do!"

The Inquisitor turned to her companions, concern evident in her expression and tone. "None of you need to come along if you don't wish to. We're just going to do some reconnaissance."

"Tsk tsk, you want to leave your heroes behind to die of boredom?" Dorian clucked at her.

She snorted. "Of all people, I would have thought you'd rather take an afternoon nap than sneak around in the heat of the desert."

"Who can sleep in this heat?" he countered. "Speaking of, be sure to add frost runes to the requisitions. You'll need them to keep your troops from expiring in this Maker-forsaken wasteland."

She looked to Varric, and he merely stood up, Bianca in hand, and gestured toward the corralled horses. Rylen led the way to the horses, feeling better at the prospect of having something to do. The itch faded away as he looked around at the people he now considered friends - even the Inquisitor seemed familiar in a way she hadn't just a day ago.

The journey consisted of a few tussles with varghest, wolves and quillbacks, but otherwise, they avoided any bandits or Venatori camps in favor of reaching the keep before the heat of late afternoon descended. They left the horses and continued on foot to get as close as possible without drawing attention to themselves. The Inquisitor gave a low whistle as she gazed across the endless sand to the monstrosity rising toward the sky.

"It's much bigger than I expected," she muttered.

"From what Harding can tell, the bandits aren't as numerous as such a place would suggest," Rylen assured her. "Still, this won't be easy. Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait for Lieutenant Rozellene and her troops to arrive before making an assault attempt?"

She shook her head and glanced over at him, a wry smile contorting her features. "I think we can manage it." She turned back and scanned the stone base. "Where is the magical entry you spoke about?"

He leaned in and sighted down his arm for her to follow. "There, you see? On the opposite side from the gate."

"Hmmm... yes. Thoughts, friends?"

"Looks simple enough to me," Bull responded. "Sneak in the back way, take out the bandits, raise the Inquisition flag, give Rylen the space and security he needs to keep a proper supply of alcohol."

Rylen laughed quietly. "I did make you a promise, after all."

"Damn right."

"Do you see the insignia on the banners, Evana?" Dorian pointed out. "Those aren't just bandits. We'll be facing Venatori as well."

She waggled her brows at him. "All the better, right?"

He smirked back at her. "Quite right."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Varric asked. "An invitation?"

Rylen blinked, looking to the dwarf and then to the Inquisitor. Before he could express his surprise and dismay, however, Dorian replied.

"Such poor manners, I know, but I think the Captain might have a fit if we don't allow him his show at the front door. And as much as I yearn to cut down a few of those wretched Venatori idiots, his diversion would give us an undeniable edge."

Her nose wrinkled in thought. A restless energy flowed into Rylen's limbs as he considered she might actually try to take the keep on her own. What would he tell the Commander if she died on his watch? Not for the first time, he considered his Inquisitor might be a bit impetuous.

"Inquisitor, all due respect, but we should wait. It's too risky. And after all, the bandits aren't going anywhere, are they?"

She turned to face him once more, her eyes calculating, and he reconsidered his judgment. After all, she knew her team and what they were capable of. Still, he saw no good reason attack without proper back up. He took a breath to continue his attempts to dissuade her. However, she nodded curtly before he could utter a word and began backing away from the keep. The rest of them followed, and as he brought up the rear of the procession back to their horses, Rylen quirked a brow and laughed internally. Cullen had certainly chosen a fighter. She'd seemed so timid in the crowds of Haven, but here with her companions, she moved with a surety he'd not seen since that fateful day he'd pissed off Cullen by trying to teach her some hand-to-hand combat.

They arrived back at camp during the hottest part of the day, and even Rylen felt the need to adjourn to his tent for a short nap. He woke sweating and groggy, but he got up anyway, helping to prepare an evening meal and then leading a short service for those who wished to observe the Chantry traditions. The Inquisitor attended, and though she didn't participate, she seemed highly interested in the entire process, her bright eyes taking in and cataloguing every detail.

After the service, he commanded his troops to arise early to prepare for their assault on the keep. Most chose to retire immediately, but Dorian didn't let the Inquisitor escape without yet another dance. This one reminded him of a dance performed by a couple of Antivan mages in the Starkhaven Circle... before it burned.

Although he wasn't tired, Rylen retired when the others did, willing himself into a sort of doze. Images of his past meshed with his present in dream-like haze - Satinalias in the Circle, laying stone with his father on a blistering day in Solace, a family dinner during which his older brother spilled the soup...

_The soup poured off the edge of the table and into their laps, the liquid tingeing a silvery blue, shimmering in the dim light of his parent's dining room, singing to him, pulling at him. He caught the drips with his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking greedily at the sparkling liquid._

He jerked awake, his tongue swollen and stuck to the top of his mouth. An ache, a need clawed at him from the inside. Pulling out his skin, he took a long pull of water and then lay back down with a huff.

The craving remained.

 

**

 

The troops marched forward, shields in position in front of them as they'd practiced again and again during long hours of training. Rylen paced up and down the line on his horse, his eyes constantly scanning them for proper position and readiness. He knew it foolish, but he rather hoped they'd make it out of this with only a few casualties.

They paused before cresting the hill, and Rylen dismounted to peer over the edge. He analyzed the battlements for archers while at the same time keeping an eye on the small group slinking along a ridge in the sand toward the other side of the keep. When they reached the base of the keep, he saw a brief flash of magic, and the tiny figures disappeared from view. Rylen charged back to his horse and mounted, leading them over the hill and toward the keep.

"Remember your orders!" Rylen shouted to his troops.

A chorus of "yesser!" echoed behind him as he rode forward, eyes sharp. He could feel the magical power emanating from the keep, and he sent up a silent prayer to the Maker that the Inquisitor wouldn't be outmatched if their plan to infiltrate the keep failed. As they drew near, a dark-haired man in Tevinter mage robes appeared at a platform near the gate.

"I will give you one warning, _In-qui-sition_ ," the mage spat out. "Turn tail and run back to your little knife-eared usurper before you learn what a real fight looks like."

Rylen glowered for a moment, wishing he could risk getting close enough to smite the bastard. "I think you'll find we're a bit better prepared than you imagine."

"Oh, please! The men and women who have been play acting at attacking our camps?"

"Yes, them," Rylen replied, venom in his looks and tone. "The ones who've sent your supposedly superior mages scattering into the desert like the rotten vermin they are."

The man bared his teeth with a growl and addressed the men and women around him. "Kill them!"

At the same moment, Rylen raised his fist. A phalanx formation emerged as interlocking slats of steel clinked together into one giant shield. The soldiers moved forward as one, while a row of archers who'd been hidden behind the soldiers rose up and took aim, close enough now to pick their targets. Another row slipped from the center of the ranks carrying ladders.

Rylen dug his heels into his horses' flank, urging it toward the gate. A group of mages had gathered on the other side, so he reached out, pulled at his powers and released a Holy Smite. All the mages at least stumbled. A few fell down. He reined in his horse as he reached the gate and pulled the outer mechanism.

Nothing happened.

He'd expected as much but cursed all the same as he narrowly avoided a few arrows from archers above. Sword already in hand, he pulled his shield from his back and ran to cover the soldiers approaching the platforms with their ladders.

"Infiltrate positions!" Rylen bellowed from his position under a rock outcropping. The soldiers smoothly rotated formation, keeping their shields tightly locked. Pride distracted him for a split-second before he pushed off the rock and ran to the first ladder as his soldiers place it against the platform wall.

"Cover fire!" Rylen bellowed again, and a volley of arrows whizzed past them to the platform and the battlements above. Rylen hooked his fingers on the rungs and hauled himself up the ladder. He met a bandit just rushing out from cover and easily sliced through the poorly patched armor before throwing him off the side of the platform. He moved into the passage, keeping a sharp eye out for archers. Risking a glance behind him, he saw troops following him up the ladder, as planned.

Suddenly, a mighty roar seemed to shake the very stones beneath his feet, and Rylen emerged from the passage to see the Iron Bull jumping over the edge of a well in the center of the expansive courtyard and rushing the closest warrior. Varric hopped out next, then Dorian, and finally the Inquisitor, their magical barriers shimmering in the afternoon heat. Then, in the midst of the chaos their appearance created, the battle began in earnest.

Rylen flanked an archer on the platform and took him out. His eyes quickly scanned the courtyard as he ran toward the gate. Careful to keep out of range of Dorian and the Inquisitor, Rylen unleashed a dispel at a group of mages who'd taken cover behind some supplies. He only experienced a moment's hesitation before cutting them down. He shook off the flash of regret, ignored the brief roil in his gut.

He looked around once more, and his jaw slackened slightly to see he and his soldiers were the only living beings still in the courtyard. Another roar sounded from further on into the keep, letting Rylen know they'd been left behind.

"After them!" he hollered to the soldiers still standing on the platform.

They took off up the stairs, and Rylen turned his attention to the gate. With a firm kick to the locking bar, the gate mechanism freed, and he pulled on the lever. He didn't bother to wait for his remaining soldiers to enter the keep. They knew their orders and their duty.

Arriving at the next level, Rylen ran past bodies piled high. Catching sight of the Inquisitor on the battlements to his right, he rushed up the stairs to defend her. As soon as he came in range, he felt the shimmer of magic descend upon him. Dorian winked at him before rising up from his cover to unleash a terrifying black cloud on an archer.

"Ah, the mighty templar comes to our rescue!"

The Inquisitor smirked at Dorian even as her hands formed a ball of flame and sent it careening toward the same foe.

"I think we're done up here, though," she replied with mock sadness in her voice. Then, turning to him, "Stay with us, Captain?"

"In the midst of the action? Nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Good man!" Dorian exclaimed with a clap on his back.

They descended to the mid level and found Bull and Varric further down dealing with a few mages. He reached out a hand to stop his companions' forward motion.

"A moment if you please."

Rylen ran forward and threw a smite at the mages. The nearest cried out before collapsing. The other two, further away, doubled over, one meeting her end under Bull's blade, the other from a bolt from Bianca straight through his neck. But it should have been more - the force of his smite should have knocked them all unconscious. Five years ago, it would have.

The Inquisitor didn't wait to regroup, instead charging headlong up the final set of stairs. The same mage who had blustered at them from the platform now stood menacingly at the top of the stairs. Before he could get close enough to use his templar powers, Rylen felt his limbs grow heavy, then bitingly cold. The ice grew up his legs, paralyzing him on the lower stairs.

"That's far enough for you, templar!" the snide voice chastised. "The rest of you - approach me if you dare!"

Rylen howled in frustration as her companions gave him a sympathetic look and then followed their Inquisitor up the stairs. He twisted his upper body, attempting to get some sort of leverage on the ice, but to no avail. The sounds of fighting reached him, and he snarled at the idea of being so Maker-damned useless in an important fight. He heard steps behind him, and he twisted around as far as possible. He exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as he recognized the soldiers who'd originally followed him up the ladder.

"Captain!"

"I'm alright! Just get up there and help the Inquisitor!"

They made to rush up the stairs just as the Inquisitor's smirking face appeared at the top.

"No need. We'll sweep this area, if your soldiers can search the interior rooms for stragglers?"

Finally, futilely, the ice began to crack and dissolve around him. His legs, numb from the ice, gave out on him, but the soldiers' quick reaction kept him from falling on his face. As they sat him down on the stairs, Lieutenant Esthiel appeared at the bottom.

"Captain! Are you alright?"

He waved off her concern. "Yes, yes. I'm alright. We need to sweep all the interior areas and the battlements. Get parties together to clear each area and begin collecting the bodies. Send another contingent back to let those at the camps know to begin packing up supplies as well as retrieve our healer. I want all our most important supplies inside these walls before nightfall. And I'll want a report on casualties."

"Ten wounded, one gravely," she responded immediately. Then, a small smile lifted her expression as she added, "No dead, ser."

Rylen blinked. "Say that again?"

She shot him a weary smile. "No dead, ser. Though as I mentioned, one is gravely injured."

The Inquisitor's soft voice behind him caught him off guard. "I've got some pretty potent healing potions on hand and know a little healing magic if you don't think the soldier would mind."

"I don't think he'd mind if it came from you, Inquisitor," came Esthiel's reply.

"Show me."

The two women hurried off to find the fallen soldier while Rylen finally pulled himself to his feet. Shaking his head, he tried to wrap his mind around it. All the bodies he'd seen - all of them had been bandits or Venatori? Stretching out his legs, he began down the stairs and moved through the keep, giving orders as he came across soldiers, all the while calculating the odds of doing what they'd just done with no deaths. Infinite, unfathomable. His wonder grew as he considered the vast majority of the fighting had been done by the Inquisitor and her three companions. Granted, she'd looked quite done in when she'd rushed off with his lieutenant, but regardless, the chances were...

Entering the courtyard passage, his mind flashed back to the mages he'd cut down, terrified faces rising up to consume his attention. He put his hand to his head and stumbled slightly. His shoulder met the stone wall, and the steel pauldron scraped against rock as he slid to his knees. The sound echoed around him, a screech of metal turned to a scream turned to the hysterical voice of...

"Captain, are you sure you're alright?"

He looked around, a fog muddling his mind. Where...? What had he been doing? The stone enclosed him; the heat suffocated him.

"Esthiel?"

Her lips turned downward, and she approached, placing a hand on his forearm. Suddenly, the fog cleared, and he shook his head, unsettled but unwilling to show exactly how much in front of his subordinate.

"Must have taken more blows than I realized today," he offered lamely. "And this heat..."

She smiled slightly, a hint of relief in her expression. "We don't often work in this afternoon heat, that's for sure. Let's get you on your feet."

She helped him up and stayed with him until well after sundown, assisting him with organizing their troops and supplies. He would have sent her away, but to his chagrin, he'd felt the fog encroaching on his thoughts a few more times as the day wore on. He knew he simply needed a good night's rest, but with all the arrangements, he didn't make it to his hastily constructed tent on the top level of the keep until nearly midnight.

Falling onto his bedroll, he lay motionless, his limbs nearly numb from exhaustion. The pain that swelled in the absence of activity caused him curl into himself. Suddenly, the cravings he'd been pushing against all evening hit him _hard_. Harder than he expected. And with them came a sickening, irrational kind of fear.

Struggling to his knees, he wrapped his arms around his stomach and curled over until his forehead touched the ground. The quiet sounds of the desert were muted inside the keep, and the silence suffocated him. His forehead still to the ground, he turned his head slightly to gaze at the trunk they'd brought from his camp tent. Inside that trunk, he knew he'd find extra rations. And wouldn't Rozellene bring more? He was not the only templar in his unit. Of course she would.

Hands shaking, he rose up, threw open the trunk lid and extracted a dose. One quarter of a dose. That's all he needed. He'd used his powers so much today - he just needed a little extra. _Not all the time. Just today._

Measuring out the quarter dose slowly to avoid spilling anything with his trembling fingers, Rylen gritted his teeth. Deep down, he knew it was a mistake. He'd seen what lyrium could do to men only slightly older than himself. But this was a special occasion. He'd only do it this once. Then no more.

He tipped the prepared bottle back, drained his quarter ration, and breathed a sigh of relief as the tremors gradually abated. Strength and calm replaced the agitation, his heartbeat slowing and his sweating decreasing to a normal level. The drowsiness previously kept at bay by his condition returned in full force, and he'd barely laid down before he fell into the blissful, deep sleep of a muted mind.


	7. Entropy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hard times bring out a steely determination in our plucky heroine, but limited choices leave our hero spiraling into despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs in the middle of Chapter 43 of Pt. 1. Warning for death and mild gore.

"Captain, may I have a word?"

Rylen looked up from his desk to find Lieutenant Rozellene waiting patiently at the entry to the small alcove that served as his office on the upper level of Griffon Wing Keep. Her face reflected concern, and Rylen immediately put down his pen and leaned back in his chair to give her his full attention.

"Of course, Rozellene. You know my... err... door is always open to you. Metaphorically speaking."

Rozellene smirked briefly. "Just thought I'd be respectful seeing as you're my commanding officer."

"Good to know you haven't forgotten completely," he retorted good-naturedly. "What is it you've got weighing on your mind, lass?"

The smirk died, her lips turning down in a pensive frown. "I assume you've noticed that the troops are... dragging a bit lately?"

Rylen inhaled slowly and then exhaled in a resigned huff. "I have. It's not an easy assignment, being here in the desert. We've worked hard to set up reliable supply lines, but even with this massive keep to house us..."

"Morale is low," Rozellene finished. "Taking the keep lifted spirits for a time, but that's almost two months past now."

Rylen grunted in acknowledgement. He'd felt it, too. The restlessness. A gradual wearing down of his defenses. The creeping despair of endless sand, seclusion and, for him, the continued feeling of being a puzzle piece that almost but didn't quite fit.

Staring blindly at the ledgers of budgets, requisitions and inventories on his desk, he mulled over the problem. He'd hoped that with time the soldiers and staff would grow content with their place. His years in the Circle should have taught him better. Time only allowed discontent to fester. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. Rozellene shifted slightly, drawing his attention, and his brows rose in questioning invitation. Correctly interpreting his gesture, she moved to stand opposite his desk.

"If I may, ser, I've thought through the issue, and I'm not sure we can fix this one with the limited funds at our disposal. I think we need help... Or rather, we need more resources to provide the kind of comforts that will raise morale. Perhaps we can come up with some ideas and then let the advisors decide? Whatever can be done will be a step in the right direction. With the Grey Warden threat looming on our doorstep, anything to provide a diversion will do."

Rylen nodded his agreement. "I'll write a letter to the advisors... and probably a separate note to the Commander giving him our ideas. He can present what he thinks feasible. Agreed?"

"Or I can write the letters... if you want," Rozellene offered quickly.

If not for the tinge of pink in her cheeks, Rylen would've thought nothing of her offer. He floundered a moment in confusion at her response and then barely contained his astonishment as the realization hit him. He dazedly wondered when her respect for Cullen had shifted into something more. Or had it always been thus and he'd only just noticed? It seemed she had yet to hear of Cullen's attachment to the Inquisitor. Rylen inwardly grimaced at the heartache awaiting his favorite lieutenant. He determined to discourage her as gently as possible, starting with denying her thinly veiled request to write Cullen a letter. He fixed a pleasant smile on his face and adopted a neutral tone.

"I appreciate the offer, but it's no trouble. I've a few other things to address in the letter as well. What do you think of a rotating schedule for Inquisition soldiers and staff? Three months per appointment? Six?"

As he'd hoped, the idea distracted her. "Rotating between the regions we hold? It would certainly help morale to have a definite end date to their tour of duty in the more severe regions. Three months should be adequate for the soldiers. Maybe six months for staff? Or not at all. They often have family - more so than the soldiers anyway."

"Yes," Rylen said, mulling over her suggestions, "perhaps the staff should be left to their own devices."

"If it doesn't present too much of a burden," Rozellene mused, "staff vacancies could be distributed among existing staff before we take on new hires. That way people can choose to move instead of being forced into it."

"That will need to go through Lady Montilyet, but I can certainly suggest it." He smiled at her warmly, a teasing lilt adding to his normal brogue. "You're full to the brim with good ideas today. Have I mentioned how glad I am to have you here?"

Rozellene rolled her eyes. "Now don't start being nice to me. My heart couldn't take the shock."

Rylen let out a chuckle and leaned back in his chair once again. "Anything else to report?"

"We're nearly done with the bridge to the other side of the sulfur pits. I suggest posting a watch to make sure no one helps themselves to the route."

"Do it," Rylen ordered. "What else?"

She handed him a piece of correspondence. "I think we've finally convinced a perishable goods merchant to permanently set up shop here. Easy access to rare goods might improve morale, though a cook would be required to really make the most of it."

"Do we have anyone in the ranks willing to take on the duty?"

"I'll check, but I doubt it. Most soldiers prefer to remain soldiers, and the staff are mostly untrained at the moment - not many people clamoring for a post in the backwaters of Orlais."

"Understood," he said through a sigh. "Ask around anyway, and I'll put that down as a suggestion in my letter to the Commander just in case we can't find anyone."

"Will do," Rozellene affirmed. "Oh, and the First Day celebrations we discussed are nearly complete."

"Good. And the ale?"

"Stowed securely and awaiting the chance to make up for the pitiful Satinalia you all had to endure."

"Pitiful!?" Rylen exclaimed in mock offense. "My celebrations could warm the iciest Mother's heart, thank you! And what about you? Did you even let your unit celebrate on the road? Or did you wake them at dawn for yet another day of marching the Imperial Highway?"

"We  _ may _ have stopped early to makeshift some masks and pass around the last of the liquor while dancing around a bonfire..."

Rylen stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. "What I wouldn't give to have see that spectacle! Did you really?"

She nodded, a wide grin on her face. "The party ended, however, when a very drunk Corporal Radley decided we should be dancing  _ naked _ ."

Rylen's laughter intensified, and Rozellene joined in for a moment before adding in a jovial tone, "If you think  _ that's  _ bad, you should come to Denerim for Satinalia sometime. The party only really gets going when people are dancing half naked in the snow. I remember one time, we stayed out so long that Nicson and I had to see a healer for frostbite on our toes."

"I didn't realize you and your Corporal friend were the 'dance around naked' type of friends," Rylen teased as he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes.

Rozellene's face blazed red. "Wha-? No! We aren't!" Her eyes narrowed on him. "Just like you to deliberately misunderstand."

"Me?" he asked innocently while pointing a finger at his chest.

"Nicson and I are the best of friends," she explained, distrust evident in her tone, "but that's  _ all _ ."

"I believe you, Lieutenant," Rylen replied with as straight a face as he could manage.

A smile played around her lips, but in the end, she kept it tightly contained. "That's all I've got...  _ ser _ ."

Acutely aware of the amount of work he needed to do before First Day, he accepted her end to the conversation with a lazy, dismissive wave of his hand. In return, she gave him an over-embellished salute, turned on her heel and, with a flash of a grin over her shoulder, left him to his work.

 

**

 

Several hours later, Rylen threw down his quill in disgust - at the report, at the thick ink that clogged in his quill and  _ especially  _ at his shaking hands. Looking up from his desk, he verified no one was around before lifting his right arm, fingers extended, palm facing downward. He watched in morose fascination as his entire hand shook like that of an 80-year-old invalid.

He'd already broken his promise to himself three other times during the two months since that first quarter ration. He'd pushed himself and worked through each new issue beyond the ever-present itch - headaches, weakness, disorientation - and succumbed to the lure of extra lyrium only when the symptoms became noticeable to others. But this... How could he finish his work when his script looked like that of a child?

_ Better to swallow my pride or swallow more lyrium? _

A blessedly chill night breeze wafted through the slits in the stone behind him as he closed his eyes against the truth. He didn't want it, that truth. What good would he be to the Inquisition if he couldn't perform his duties?

But, then again, at what point did personal cost outweigh the benefit he could provide? He knew the end result of a lifetime of lyrium. As a Knight-Captain in the Starkhaven Circle, he'd even been responsible for "retiring" to far away, secluded Chantries those templars whose decline in mental function meant they could no longer perform their duties. What happened when  _ he  _ became an addled old templar who couldn't remember which was the pointy end of a sword? He shivered at the thought.

His mind turned then to his commanding officer's struggle to be free from lyrium - his efforts to break the chains of addiction that enslaved them all. The morning Cullen had told Rylen about his decision to give up lyrium, Rylen had found the other man laid up in bed from some sort of grievous attack. Since then, Rylen had witnessed the gradual decline of Cullen's health despite the man's seemingly superhuman tolerance for pain.

Rylen hadn't been lying when he'd told Cullen he wished he had the guts to give up lyrium. Few things had ever shaken Rylen as much as this small taste of the horrors of withdrawal. Give him a good skirmish or varghest fight any day.  _ Maker, anything but this. _

He leaned forward with a harsh exhale and cradled his head in his hands. He didn't want to think about it. Any of it. And yet weeks on end of nothing but sand and temperature extremes and a vast  _ emptiness  _ all around them - with precious few things to do during down time - had the irritating effect of leaving him alone with his thoughts far too often.

Deep down, he already knew his choices, though... had known them since he'd escorted his first feeble-minded templar out of the Circle. He could permanently increase his doses and eventually lose his mind, suffer this perpetual, nightmarish half withdrawal for the rest of his life - and probably still lose his mind eventually - or quit altogether and risk a slow, painful death. There were no other options.

His spirits sank lower, and the heaviness of despair settled over him, a weight pushing on him until his fingers slid from his face and into his hair as his head dropped toward his knees. He grimaced as his fingernails scraped against his dirty scalp. Maker, what he wouldn't give for a good washing right about now. An inch ration of water at the bottom of a bucket wasn't enough to scrub away all the dust and grime of this Void-taken desert, nor to cleanse him of the dangerous thoughts plaguing him day and night.

"Captain, I have-"

Rylen's head snapped up, a short, low growl at the back of his throat cutting off the soldier and causing the man to stop in his tracks, eyes wide. For a split second, Rylen's vision blurred, and the irrational anger at being caught in a moment of weakness surged into a barely contained rage.

"What?!" Rylen barked.

"Uh, s-sorry to disturb you, ser," the surprised soldier stammered. "I have correspondence from Skyhold. You said-"

"I know what I said!" Rylen interrupted again in a gruff tone. "Hand it over and be on your way."

"Yes, ser!"

The soldier dropped the scrolls on the desk and hurried away as if the whole of the Grey Warden demon army were chasing after him. Rylen stared after the young soldier, his eyes eventually unfocusing as his anger faded into shame and self-derision. His head dropped into his hands once more, and he let out a low, tortured groan.

The poor man had been surprised by his Captain's behavior for good reason. Rylen had never in his life snapped at a soldier without cause and prided himself on his cool head and ability to remain calm in tense situations.

Until now.

He'd lost his temper at a messenger who had been following  _ his _ orders, who had done absolutely nothing wrong. What if this had been something important? Something urgent? Breathing deeply into his hands, Rylen forced back a sudden tightness in his throat, a sting at the back of his eyes, and he knew - before he stood, before he even moved - what tonight would bring.

Tonight, he would break his promise to himself a fourth time.

 

___________________________

 

"Madame Millier! We are ready for the desserts."

Monsieur Baron's voice carried over the excited cacophony of the kitchen staff, and Trice nodded to him as she barked out orders to the servers. As with each course before it, the cherry tarts received her final inspection and the addition of a sprig of fresh mint as garnish. Nodding in approval as each tray passed her on the way up the stairs, Trice let her nerves settle.

With the event planner's adept maneuvering, Madame d'Eriani's First Day dinner party had become a high priority event of the season. Nobles from all over had clamored for an invitation to spend the evening with Val Royeaux's premier food connoisseur. The dinner had expanded from 20 to 30 and finally to 50 guests, and Trice had spent all her free time in the weeks since Satinalia creating the perfect menu to impress even the snobbiest critic. She'd poured her heart and soul into the meal, demanding nothing short of perfection from herself and her staff, both the permanent and temporary servers brought in to handle the nine-course dinner. For the first time in many years, the approval of her employer meant something to her, and she'd determined to do everything short of sacrificing her children to the Maker to make the meal a smashing success.

"And that's the last of them!" Trice sang out in elation as the last server passed by on his way upstairs.

A massive weight lifted from her shoulders, and she let the warm glow of success replace the nervousness that had dogged her all evening. Monsieur Baron watched the servers tread lightly up the stairs and then turned to give her his full attention.

"I must say, Madame, that you have outdone yourself tonight," he commented with a warm twinkle in his eye. "In all my years, I've never before heard such outbursts of appreciation at a house dinner. Some of the guests even demanded to know who of the great chefs in Val Royeaux Madame d'Eriani had pilfered for her event. They made a game of it, shouting out famous names while the Madame sat back with a smug grin on her face."

"Oh!" Trice breathed in wonder, eyes widening. "Really? They thought she'd hired a true chef?"

Monsieur Baron quirked a perfectly shaped brow. "I believe, Madame, the point is that  _ you _ are a true chef."

Pleasure warred with embarrassment, and her face flushed under his praise. Trice ducked her head to hide it. 

"Now, now," the old man admonished with a chuckle. "None of that! You've done well and pleased Madame d'Eriani exceedingly. I imagine she is even now singing your praises."

Trice lifted her head in curiosity. "Still?"

"Oh, yes. One of the guests in particular has been rather tenacious in finding out your name. I believe the lady may have designs on hiring you out from under us. However, Madame d'Eriani is not a master of The Game for nothing." He gave her a sympathetic smile. "I'm afraid you'll receive no lucrative offers as a result of tonight's success... unless Lady Rousseau is a wilier opponent than I give her credit for."

Trice felt her world narrow to a point. One point. One thought. One agonizing moment.

"L-lady...?"

"...Rousseau, yes," Monsieur Baron supplied with easy grace, all while Trice felt as if she were suddenly drowning. "A Comtesse of something or other, I believe, who resides on an estate in Ghislain. She and Madame d'Eriani apparently met at the Winter Palace... but Trice, my dear, you look as if you've seen a ghost!"

Trice tried to remain calm, tried to hold it in. It had to be coincidence. Didn't it? Both hands gripped at the table in front of her as she struggled to keep herself upright.

"Lady Rousseau... is... here? Upstairs? Right now?"

"You know her?" Monsieur Baron asked with a hint of surprise in his typically stoic expression.

She sucked in a breath even as her lungs seemed to cave in on themselves, constricting and twisting her breath away, and her voice pitched higher as she responded, "I do. Oh, I do! Monsieur, you must return to the dinner! You must tell me if my name is mentioned! Tell me how Lady Rousseau looks when or if she hears it! Please, I  _ beg  _ you!"

"Yes, of course," he responded, concern coloring his words. "Of course I will, but you must calm yourself. Whatever it is, I assure you, Madame d'Eriani will protect her own from any outside threats."

Trice felt herself nodding even as her brain screamed in denial at such a ludicrous idea. Monsieur Baron took her elbow and led her to a chair. His lips moved as he backed away from her, hands out, palms down, pressing downward as if such a thing could bring her calm, but she heard nothing over the roaring of blood in her ears. 

_ Doomed. I am doomed. _

After a last glance in her direction, Monsieur Baron disappeared up the stairs, and Trice finally doubled over, gasping as the full strength of her panic took hold. Suddenly, an entirely different scene played before her eyes.

... ...

_ A soft knock at the door. A soft groan as she lifts her nearly nine-months pregnant body from the chair and waddles to the door. A young man stands at the door, the uniform bearing the Empress' crest hanging from his spindly body. He looks at her face, down to her burgeoning middle, and then back to her face... _

_ And she knows. From the look in his eye, she  _ knows _. A numbness blooms in her chest and creeps slowly through her limbs. She watches as if from outside her body as her hand rises up to receive the missive. _

_ "You are Patrice Millier?" _

_ "I am." _

_ He presses the paper into her hand. "Message from the Empress, madame. You... uh... were listed as family." The young man begins to move away but hesitates as she continues to stand at the door, eyes unfocused, body swaying slightly. "Is there someone I can fetch for you, ma'am?" _

_ "Nellie," comes a wooden voice from her parched lips. "Next door." _

_ Her arm rises up again - so strange how it moves of its own accord - and points to the house next door. The young man lifts his cap, his eyes still on her, concerned, a bit frightened. She stares after him as the numbness spreads further, thickens into muddy unfeeling, and a small voice rising above the mess of her brain tells her to sit. Stilted movements bring her back into the room that had only a moment ago felt safe. Home-y. Hopeful. His. _

_ Sitting on her chair, she stares at the Empress' seal. Her breathing deepens, and those hands move again on their own, breaking the seal, opening the letter. _

_ "Madame Patrice Millier, _ _   
_ _ It is with deepest sympathies that we inform you Lord Jerome Rousseau, second son of Comte Rousseau of Ghislain, has been killed in action during the Battle of..." _

_ The letter falls from her fingers as the visions invade - blood, clanging swords, filthy trenches, burnt flesh... and Jerome, her beautiful, loyal, handsome Jerome, cornered, sword flashing as he attempts to fight off the enemy. A sword rips from his chest - a stab in the back - and blood blooms as he falls to his knees then crumples to the ground... _

_ It's the pain that brings her back. A constricting pain in her belly that comes and goes with increasing frequency. Her numbness abates enough to realize she is wet. Vaguely, she understands her baby - his baby - their baby is coming. _

_ Familiar voices surround her. Nellie. Marcel. Jacques. _

_ The baby comes. She pushes through the pain, but still the numbness lingers. She moves as if through a dream - once, twice, three times the scenery changes. She returns to a new bed each time, trying to find her way out, trying to care each time they lay the squalling infant on her breast and when a little boy of five rests at her side and whispers pleas through his tears for mommy to come back. _

_ The infant disappears, and finally...  _ finally _... she feels a pricking of emotion... concern. The little boy - Jacques, it is Jacques - cries with joy when she reaches for him for the first time in weeks, kisses his brow, whispers broken apologies to her first born. _

_ "Where is the baby, Nellie?" she asks, afraid of the answer. _

_ Afraid of what she might have done. _

_ "Oh, Trice! Darling Trice! Your little girl has been taken by your Jerome's mother. Lady Rousseau. We are trying to get her back, but..." _

_ Nellie shakes her head in despair, and Trice feels herself falling again. But a little boy's hand in hers makes her fight harder. For him. For herself. For the baby girl she'd only just begun to know. She cannot fall apart. She will not be so weak again. _

... ...

Trice burst from her chair and ran down the hall to her rooms, equal parts panic and determination filling her veins. It had taken three months to get Clara back - three months of Lady Rousseau abusing her to her face, denying her even a glimpse of the child she'd already lost far too much time with because of her descent into despair after Jerome's death. Trice had been grateful that Jerome had made provisions for her in his final documents, but Lady Rousseau had fought them at every turn and used all her considerable power to steal Clara away. And who would side with a disinherited, disgraced woman over a Comtesse?

No one. Except the servants. And that's how they'd won, in the end.

Using his connections with the working class network in Val Royeaux, Marcel had arranged to smuggle the child out of the Rousseau's Ghislain estate during a party. A woman calling herself Red Jenny brought the child to them under cover of darkness. Red Jenny had promised to manufacture a false trail out of the city to lead astray anyone who attempted to find Trice again. Relieved beyond words, Trice had vowed then and there that no one would ever take her children from her again - not while she yet lived.

With Marcel and Nellie's help, Trice had kept her word. She disappeared into the side streets and back alleys of Val Royeaux, taking jobs with fake names or simply not giving names at all. Lady Rousseau had been the main reason she hadn't taken a secure job such as this one since before she'd met Jerome.

After six years of hiding, however, they'd become complacent. Nellie and Marcel had thought she would be safe. Lady Rousseau had surely given up the chase, and Trice could begin again.

_ Oh! Foolishness!  _ It could not be coincidence that Lady Rousseau had found her way to Madame d'Eriani's dinner party. The woman played The Game far too well for that. What Trice wouldn't give to go back and make Marcel use a false name when negotiating for this position!

Trice reached the end of the hall and quietly opened the door to the children's room. Their sweet faces shone up at her from the depths of sound slumber, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. They hadn't taken Clara, yet. Trice still had a chance to make it right.

Trice closed the door and went to her own room. She pulled out the bag that, out of habit, she always kept at the ready, and she double checked the contents - two changes of clothes for them all, basic necessities such as tooth cleaner, hair brush, ink and quill, some paper, and most importantly, the generous amount of coin she'd received so far as her monthly stipend from Madame d'Eriani. She added more of their clothing and a few personal items to the bag before setting it aside.

Moving to her desk, she pulled out a sheet of paper. She'd intended to write a letter of explanation, but in the end, she only wrote an apology for leaving without proper notice. She could not risk more than that. After all, she only had a vague plan for getting out of the city - one that involved Marcel's help once again. As she wrote a short note to her old friend, she said a fervent prayer of thanks once more for the ravens that would convey her message with a speed and secrecy no courier could ever match.

Trice placed the apology note on the desk and hid the note to Marcel in her bag. Then, sitting down on her bed, Trice looked around the room as a deep sadness welled up inside her. Despite only being there for three months, the rooms, the kitchen, the house, had become a home to her. Her children received a remarkable education from Monsieur Julien - who had remained entirely professional despite how she'd disappointed him at the Satinalia party two months ago. Her own palate and skills had been challenged and sharpened by Madame d'Eriani's exacting preferences. Her children had come to love and be loved by the staff, and she had made dear friends - Monsieur Baron, Madame and Monsieur Toulouse, all her kitchen staff.

A fat tear rolled down her cheek as she allowed this brief moment of self pity. Then, she flicked the tear away, stood, and went to wake the children, a steely determination replacing the panic and sadness in her gut. There would be no hiding in Val Royeaux this time. She had to get as far away from the city as possible. Any other option would risk losing them all over again.

She had to run.


	8. Under strange skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice escapes from Val Royeaux and ends up at Griffon Wing Keep.
> 
> Rylen thinks someone must have taken leave of their senses to send her there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 occurs during the events of Chapters 43-46 of Part 1.

The letter came under cover of darkness - a small knock, the messenger gone before she'd even peeked through the cracked door. Diving quickly for the cloth sack and attached roll of parchment, Trice shut and locked the door quietly so as not to wake the children. The scrap of red cloth tied around the paper and wrapped around the opening of the sack told her the delivery had been made by a Friend of Red Jenny, just as Marcel had promised in his last letter.

During the past week, the Friends of Red Jenny had moved them twice in order to stay ahead of Lady Rousseau. She had been relieved and yet terrified to learn from one of the Jennies - for she now knew it to be an organization instead of a singular person - that her caution had been warranted. Hired thugs had been caught breaking into Madame d'Eriani's home the night after Trice escaped, and the Friends had traced the job back to none other than Lady Rousseau. More than that, they'd sent a helpful little note around to Monsieur Baron informing him - and therefore Madame d'Eriani - of Lady Rousseau's deviousness. Trice spared a moment to revel in the retribution Madame d'Eriani would exact upon Lady Rousseau in the name of The Grand Game... but she could spare no more than a moment.

Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal, and an exhalation of relief blew across her lips at the sight of Nellie's familiar hand. She had been corresponding exclusively with Marcel to this point, but seeing Nel's handwriting brought a sense of normalcy to the strained situation even if the words did pull at her heart.

_Oh, my dearest Trice!!_

_I should have expected this! We ought not have left you alone there! I am beside myself with guilt and worry, as is Marcel. Please respond as quickly as you may once you arrive at your new destination to ease our minds as to your safety._

_I am relieved that the Inquisition seems to have need of another cook. Unfortunately, it means you will not be joining us in Skyhold. Marcel has explained why it is necessary to keep you out from under the nose of so many nobles constantly coming and going from here. I suppose I understand, but I had already let myself hope, and therefore the disappointment is all the more bitter. Give the children extra kisses from me._

_I must let Marcel take over now, for he will write your next instructions. His Friends of Red Jenny are standing by to help, thank the Maker. Oh! And we have one here, too! Imagine Marcel's surprise to see his main Val Royeaux contact living and working as a companion to the Inquisitor._

_But here is Marcel. All my love, dearest. Andraste guide and protect you. We will be praying for you._

Here the writing changed to Marcel's flowing letter forms, and Trice paused to suck in a trembling breath and wipe the tears from her eyes. After a few more deep breaths to calm herself, she read through Marcel's note with careful eyes.

_Trice, we are ready to remove you from the city and set you off to your destination. I dare not say where in case the letter is intercepted, but all the preparations have been made. You will need to be ready by just after midnight on 10 Wintermarch. A Friend will come to the door, knock twice, and then after a moment knock twice again. A sack of clothing should have been delivered with this letter. Disguise the children as much as you can - if you can manage to make Clara look like a little boy, all the better. My thoughts and prayers go with you, my child. I'm so sorry I failed to adequately protect you all in this, but I will ensure you are safe from now on. You have my word._

_Ever your friends,_ _  
_ _Nellie and Marcel_

Trice folded the letter and placed it with the others inside her bodice. Then, untying the sack in her lap, she pulled out ragged boy clothes in roughly Clara's size, another set in Jacques' size and a patched, faded dress in a drab brown... or was it gray? Nondescript would be the word for it. Trice understood immediately. They were to be unexceptional. Uninteresting. Blend in to the point no one would question or bother them. She smiled and set the clothes aside.

The bottom of the sack contained three thin cloaks of the same ilk and a pot of what looked to be some sort of cream. Curious, she dabbed a bit on her finger, smearing it around. To her surprise, she found it to be make-up. And not just any kind of make-up. This was stage-quality cream, meant to cover up a multitude of complexion sins...

Or lighten brown skin into an unrecognizable paleness. Trice raised her brows in awed surprise. The Friends of Red Jenny knew just how to smuggle people out of a city, it seemed.

Taking a deep breath, she put the items back in the bag and placed it next to her own packed bag - always packed, always ready to move. She had one more day to prepare. The Friends would be at her door tomorrow night.

With a final look at her children sleeping soundly on their pallets, Trice blew out the candle and lay down beside them. Although she had no idea how long or far they would travel, she was sure they would all need as much sleep as possible for the journey ahead.

 

**

 

The hour grew late. She had no clock - only the rich had such intricate Dwarven toys - but she could tell the hour from the Chantry bells that rang faintly in the distance. One hour after midnight. Surely the Friends would be here soon.

"Mama, where are we going?"

Jacques spoke in a low tone, and she glanced over to where he sat on the makeshift pallet, holding his sister's hand.

"I... Uncle Marcel has arranged it, but did not tell me our destination. For safety."

Jacques nodded and said no more, a sullen expression puckering his face. The children had grown restless while cooped up in the various back rooms and basements throughout Val Royeaux. They had barely spoken to her after she explained why they'd left Madame d'Eriani's house, but neither had they thrown fits or attempted to run away from her. She'd tried to explain the best she could without frightening them, but Clara had blanched and held to her tightly at the idea of being taken away from her mama and brother.

Now, they both sat quietly, Clara's grip on her brother's hand slipping a little due to the thick makeup covering their exposed skin. She had to admit, even she hardly recognized her children in their rough clothing and lightened skin. Jacques had simply become a pale version of himself, but after Trice had dressed Clara in the boys clothes, pulled her thick locks up into a tight bun and placed the boys hat on her head, the girl seemed to be a different child entirely. And that, she supposed, was the point.

"When our friends arrive, you remember what to do?" Trice asked for the fourth time in the last hour.

Clara nodded. "Stay quiet."

"Stay close," Jacques finished.

"Yes. Good. Once we're away from Val Royeaux, we need not be so secretive. But remember, your name is no longer Millier. We are the Valeras now."

"Why Valera?" Jacques asked, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

Trice turned away and busied herself with a final look through the sack she'd used to camouflage her too-nice bag. "Because it is a name no one remembers but myself - my grandmother's maiden name."

Silence descended once more with only the soft sound of lapping water eking through the cracked window. With each move, they had come closer to the edge of the city, indicating to Trice that each move had been planned to get them out of the city faster as well as to keep Lady Rousseau's people off their scent.

After confirming the contents for the fifth time, Trice closed up the bag using the strap she'd made out of an unused length of rope, sat on a nearby box and looked to the single candle guttering in the slight breeze. Her gaze unfocused as she watched the flame dance on the currents. How many times would she have to do this? Would moving to another kingdom help? No. Surely if Lady Rousseau had not allowed six years to daunt her, she would make nothing of crossing borders. Trice would have to trust in her friends... and the Friends of her friends.

A double knock at the door set her heart racing. A pause. Her entire body tensed with anticipation, and she looked to her children, their eyes wide and glued on her.

_A second double knock._

Trice forced herself to breathe normally as she quickly blew out the candle, slung the sack crossways over her chest and moved to the door. A part of her balked. What if someone had found out the code? What if people waited on the other side to steal her daughter away?

 _Nonsense and paranoia. Open the door, silly girl._ She squared her shoulders and slid the lock aside to crack the door open.

"A friend here to lead you home," came a soft voice from a cloaked figure at the door.

The person made no move to force entry. And they'd used the knock Marcel had told her about. She opened the door wider, not taking her eyes off the figure as she softly called her children to her. One small hand slipped into each of hers.

"Follow me," came the soft voice again.

The figure at the door waited one moment before turning to move down the steps. Trice could barely see the figure in the nearly moonless night. She suddenly wondered if that had anything to do with why they'd had to wait so long to get out of the city. The Friends had planned everything else. Why not this?

Weaving among the maze of alleys and roads, they quickly came to the docks. The figure motioned to follow along the shadow of the buildings. Clara's light steps became clomps as she struggled to keep up, and the figure stopped.

"Too much noise," the voice hissed.

Trice had already knelt down to lift Clara into her arms. With the sack on her back and the girl on her hip, she gripped tighter to Jacques' slick hand.

"Ready," she breathed, careful to keep as quiet as possible.

The figure moved forward again. They stole along the edge of the docks, walking for what seemed like an age, every careful, quiet step emphasizing the weight of her nearly six-year-old as well as the pack on her back. Why had she thought bringing her favorite books would be a good idea?

Finally, the figure stopped and motioned for them to embark on what was certainly a jolly boat for a much larger ship. Once aboard, the figure took to the oars.

As she watched the glittering lights of Val Royeaux recede into the distance, she allowed herself a final moment to mourn the life she'd lived there. Although many years had been spent under cover, she'd experienced more good than bad, made more friends than enemies... even if her biggest enemy had turned out to be far more powerful - and more tenacious - than she'd realized.

Larger waves lapped at the side of the boat, indicating they'd moved from the safety of the river channel into the larger harbor, and Trice clutched her children tighter. With one final look at the city in which she'd spent half her life, she let her hopes and dreams for Val Royeaux slide into the deep, dark abyss below and turned her face into the darkness of her future.

 

**

 

They disembarked at the port town that served southern Orlais, including the great cities of Lydes and Halamshiral. Unlike their night escape, the midday sun shone down its blessed warmth, taking the edge off the chill that had seeped into her bones after a day and a night belowdecks staying out of sight. Her children remained quiet, but their eyes greedily took in all the sights and sounds of their new surroundings. She guiltily realized that they'd never been outside of Val Royeaux before. Well, they would see many new sights now... wherever they were going.

Their guide, an older woman who had refused to divulge her name, had helped them reapply the makeup that had worn off during the journey and then led them away from the docks. Wagons waiting to be filled with goods lined the road leading south toward the Imperial Highway. No one looked at them or seemed to notice the family - seemingly a poor grandmother, daughter and two sons - as they wove between carts and horses. Their guide approached the driver of a wagon already full of goods. After coins passed hands, he nodded without even looking back at them. The older woman motioned for them to climb in.

"We'll be on the road for many hours, so best make yourself comfortable," the woman said in a low tone as they all climbed on top of the sacks.

"How long, do you think?" Trice asked.

"At least eight hours, maybe ten if we hit mud or bad weather," she replied.

"And we'll meet our..." Trice hesitated, wary of the driver, before continuing, "meet our family there?"

"Yes," the woman said with a hint of a smile. "Our family will be waiting for us."

The woman said no more, and Trice thought it better not to ask more questions in case the offer of more gold loosened the driver's tongue just as easily as it had caused him to turn a blind eye to his extra cargo. Clara and Jacques fell asleep almost immediately on the sun-warmed bags of what seemed to be rice. Trice tried to stay awake, but her fear of discovery had kept her awake on the journey across the Waking Sea. She eventually succumbed to a deep if troubled slumber.

The jolt of the wagon woke her, and she opened her eyes to darkness. A sliver of Satina sat on the horizon, barely illuminating the surroundings, but Trice could make out the form of the older woman sprawled out beside Clara. Clearly, she'd had no qualms about leaving the driver to his own devices.

"Almost there," the driver called out softly.

Instantly, the older woman sat up. "You know the routine?"

"Aye, friend," the driver replied.

A faint sound of activity lifted over the quiet creaking of nature, the clop of the horses' hooves and the low rumble of the wagon. They crested a hill, and the sudden twinkling of several distant fires came into view. At the same moment, the wagon came to a stop.

"This is our stop," the woman muttered.

Trice roused the children, who moaned piteously but followed her off the wagon and into the darkness without a backward glance at wagon or driver. They walked through the woods, the night sounds taking over once more, until she realized they were drawing closer to the fires she'd seen at the top of the hill.

"Are we joining with the group in the valley, then? Are they part of the Inquisition?" Trice asked, bolder now that they were alone in the woods and safe from anyone who might overhear them.

"Aye," the woman responded. "They will take you where you're going. You'll use your new name from now on. The children know it?"

"Yes," Jacques responded before Trice could. "I'm Jacques Valera."

"And I'm Clara Valera!"

After a beat of silence, both Jacques and Clara burst into giggles. Trice managed to contain her laughter, but their companion made no such effort. She laughed in a low, throaty way as she ruffled Clara's hair.

"That's quite a lofty name for such a young lady," the woman commented through snickers.

"It does sound a little funny," Jacques said with another laugh. "Did you know how it would sound, mama?"

Trice finally let out a small laugh, and something inside her broke free. The tension, the fear, the worry ebbed away, at least for the moment, and she reached out for her son, hugging him awkwardly as they walked along.

"No, I didn't think about it, but wherever we're going, you all won't have to say your names very often. I will take care of it."

"Well, I like it," Clara stated firmly.

"I do, too, little one," said the woman said, a note of fondness in her voice. "Perhaps it will help you remember?"

"Oh, I don't think any of us can forget it, now," Jacques returned with another snicker as they steadily approached the warmth of fire and, hopefully, new friends.

 

**

 

Trice hauled herself up into the back of the wagon and held up her cloak for her children to climb under. However stifling, the shade of the cloak kept their skin from burning too badly. After the cold of the winter season in Val Royeaux, the strangely warm desert seemed almost unbearable. She knew they'd become accustomed to it - after all, the summers in Orlais were just as hot and far more humid than this.

Lieutenant Kirel, the man in charge of the Inquisition troops now making their way to the Western Approach, had indicated they only had another day's ride before they reached Griffon Wing Keep. At first, she'd been disappointed by the news that she would be heading to such a desolate place, but the more she thought of it, the more sense it made. No nobles would ever visit such a wasteland. And no one would pay any attention to a military cook amid a bevy of soldiers.

But what of the children? They would need to be educated, but Trice had only been able to escape with a few books, none of which were school books. If her job kept her constantly busy, how would she have time to teach them? To keep them out of trouble? Maker! In the desert, where would they even play? She couldn't imagine there would be other children there.

She had no answers, but at least she didn't have to hide anymore, either. They'd wiped off the makeup and dressed Clara in her own clothes before joining with the Inquisition troops gathered at the crossroads of the southern port road and the Imperial Highway. There, the older woman had bid them farewell and left Trice to announce herself to the soldiers. It had been a bit of an ordeal, but she'd finally been directed to the Lieutenant, who had at least known to expect her even if he had seemed somewhat surprised by the sight of her and her children.

This day proceeded just as all the rest had since that night - dirty, gritty and, since leaving the Imperial Highway, increasingly warm. The winds blew the sand everywhere, and Trice had long ago given up trying to keep it at bay. They stopped briefly for a midday meal and then climbed back into the wagon. The afternoon sun beat down on them, but eventually, the wind seemed to change, bringing with it an almost cool breeze, and the children became more talkative.

"Mama, when we get to the Griffon, I'm going to make it take me for a ride," Clara pronounced.

Trice looked down in time to see Jacques roll his eyes. "I've told you before, you goose. Griffons are extinct. Monsieur Julien said so. It's probably just named for a person or something."

In true five-year-old form, Clara stubbornly crossed her arms and huffed. "I'm _going to ride it_."

Jacques snorted his derision at his annoying little sister, but suddenly, something else caught his interest. He peered out from under the cloak, looking curiously over the shoulder of the driver.

"What's that?" he asked the driver as he pointed off to the Western horizon.

Trice turned her head to find that a bank of dark clouds complete with sharp flashes of lightning had appeared at the junction of sand and sky. The storm would soon overtake the sinking sun, and Trice relished the thought of a reprieve from this desert misery. The driver called out ahead, but it seemed the others had already seen it.

"Griffon Wing on the horizon!" came a shout from Lieutenant Kirel in the front guard. "Pick up the pace, soldiers!"

Trice looked again, this time focusing not on the black clouds but on the landscape instead. Sure enough, a fortress had appeared in the distance. Although it still seemed small from their vantage point, the distance and relative size of the structure took her breath away. It must be massive!

The wagon jolted forward as the driver did as ordered. The keep came ever nearer, but the clouds moved faster. Eventually, the keep disappeared into a haze of what appeared to be heavy rain. Trice knew she should be worried about being caught in such a violent storm, but she could only thank the Maker for being close to such a massive and fearsome structure clearly well equipped to handle storms... or assaults.

Perhaps she'd never think of it as home, but in a keep such as that, and under the protection of the Inquisition, she felt a glimmer of hope that they would be secure. She could disappear for a year or so, and then relocate somewhere else where Lady Rousseau would never find them.

A swell of gratitude for Nellie and Marcel - as well as for her new Friends - overwhelmed her, but her tears of relief were quickly overtaken by massive drops from the sky. With a laugh, Jacques threw off the cloak, and Trice could only laugh along with him, tilt her face into the coming rain and thank the Maker for small favors.

 

___________________________

 

A strange rumble sounded in the distance, and Rylen lifted his head from his paperwork. The late afternoon sun had left them all sweating and eager for the cool relief of the desert night, but Rylen still had a good two hours of reports to write. Despite that, he dropped his quill, placed a weight over his papers and leaned forward, waiting. He had nearly given up when another rumble sounded.

The sound seemed at once familiar and foreign, but he couldn't quite put his finger on the source. A minor hubbub began at the westernmost tower and quickly spread through the top level of the keep. The pounding of boots on stone and Rozellene's commanding voice rising above the growing din set him into motion.

"Eh! You there! Soldier! What's going on?" Rylen demanded in his gruffest tone as he emerged from his office alcove.

The soldier skidded to a halt, hastily saluting before jamming his finger up toward the Western sky. He said only one word before scurrying off to complete his orders from Rozellene.

" _Rain!_ "

 _Rain? Andraste's flaming sword!_ A thrill rippled through Rylen as he set off for the western tower. He needed to see it for himself.

Sure enough, after four months of nothing but clear skies, a great black cloud loomed on the horizon, quickly eating up the last of the evening sunlight but compensating with a light show all its own. Jagged bolts of lightning cut through the clouds repeatedly, the rumbling sound of the resulting thunder growing ever louder.

"Captain!" Rozellene shouted at him from below. "Have you prepared?"

"Ah! No! In a moment."

He rushed back down the ladder, his own part in the preparations minimal but necessary. He and Rozellene had come up with the plan together after the soldiers had, while exploring caves in the area, discovered several accounts of rare but powerful rain storms in the desert. The texts described massive amounts of water dumped from the sky in a relatively short amount of time. Working from that premise, they'd developed a strategy to funnel as much water as possible into the fouled well below the keep with the hope of flushing it clean. They'd already removed the bodies and had a couple of their warrior mages on staff use fire to boil the water and remove any other remains, but no one would drink the fetid, slimy water. And rightly so.

The rumbling grew louder still as Rylen retrieved his supplies and set up the northern end of the keep. An intricate web of boards, gutters and buckets had already begun to emerge out of the chaos, and Rylen watched the final pieces slot into place with a stir of excitement. Even though he'd assisted in developing the plan, this would likely be their first - and perhaps only - test. A hush spread through the keep as each section finished their portion. Finally, Rozellene's voice rang loud over the growing rush of wind and thunder.

"All diverters in place?"

"Yes, ser!" a nearby soldier replied.

"All canvas awnings repositioned?"

"Yes, ser!" shouted a different soldier.

"Gutters and troughs in place?"

"Yes, ser!"

"Alright then," she affirmed, and with a laugh, she gave the final order. "Ready the soap!"

Rylen snickered as he and the rest of the soldiers and staff ran to their quarters to pull out anything they wished to wash including clothes, bed linens, dishes, weapons and, of course, themselves. He admitted the plan was a bit ridiculous, but even if it didn't work to clean out the well, at least everything in the keep would get a thorough scrubbing. He ran to his room on the lower level, gathered his items and returned to the upper level. Raking a hand through his dirty hair, he allowed himself to anticipate the feel of rain drops on his skin. In fact...

The soldiers around him had already started stripping. Some stood in nothing but their smalls. Others had simply removed their armor and milled about in trousers and tunics. Rylen shrugged out of his own armor, keeping the pieces that could be safely washed with the rest of his items while storing the remainder in his covered office alcove.

As he returned to the open area, he felt the first drops touch his face. An appreciative murmur rippled through the crowd as they all listened to the violence of the approaching storm, all rushing wind, pouring rain, flashing light and booming thunder. Torches had been extinguished and placed under cover leaving only the faint light of the evening sky in the east and the brilliant spears of lightning to see by. Rylen pulled off his tunic, eager to feel the increasingly frequent drops of cool water on his bare, sun-browned skin. Then, all at once, the rain came.

Torrents of water came buckets at a time, fat drops blending into rivers falling from the sky and drowning out the shouts and surprised laughter. Lightning cracked through the sky above, and after a moment of awed stillness, the soldiers flew into motion. Some started with themselves, others with their clothing, but soon the entire keep scrubbed on something in the giant troughs they'd constructed to capture the rain. The rain came down so hard that the troughs filled up to overflowing in a matter of minutes, assisted by the waterfalls coming off the swathes of canvas above them. And unbelievably, the rain only increased in strength until he could barely see the people standing next to him through the haze of rain splashing up from the hard stone floor.

Eyes closed against the rivers of water flowing down his face, Rylen worked through the linens and then his clothing by feel. Finally, he ripped off his trousers and smalls to wash them and himself. He finished all that, dumped his trough to allow it to collect clean water and pulled on a sopping pair of sleeping breeches for modesty, but still the rain came down, chill water running down his body, through his wiggling bare toes and down the intricate route of gutters that directed all water to the well opening at the lowest level of the keep.

Standing in the middle of the downpour, Rylen lifted his face to the blackened sky, a grin splitting his cheeks nearly in two. He felt it then. A single, strong sense of newness that started as a small flicker and only grew stronger as he stood there in the freshness of the passing rain. A new beginning. A portent of change. Tomorrow he'd likely dismiss of feeling as a wild flight of fancy, but in that moment, standing nearly naked with his face lifted to the skies, he could believe it. Starting now, things would be different. They would win the day against the awful evil they faced. _He_ would win against the weakness inside himself.

He couldn't say how long he stood there, but eventually, the rain began to taper off. The feeling, however, didn't fade.

"This should do wonders for morale," came Rozellene's chipper voice beside him.

He kept his face pointed upward but hummed out his acknowledgement. "Hmmm. Now, if only we could order up a rain storm whenever spirits take a turn for the worse."

Rozellene chuckled, and Rylen glanced toward her as lightning illuminated the keep. She stood beside him in a sleeveless shift, her hands outstretched and fingers wiggling in the droplets falling from above. Her dark hair hung loose down her back, water dripping from the ends and sluicing down her bare legs. A grin matching his own caused her cheeks to crinkle in waves of joy.

"If only," she agreed. "I hope our plan worked. Not having to fight off wildlife and lug water to the keep from miles away would be a big step. At the very least, though, we'll all smell better."

"Until the sun comes up and we're back to sweating like nugs," Rylen said with a laugh.

"I'm just glad it happened tonight. I'd have been pretty mad if I'd left today as planned and missed all this."

"Yes, well, the Commander needs you there more than I need you here." He paused to give her a sidelong glance, but in the near darkness, he couldn't tell if she were blushing or not. "But after all that planning, I'm glad you were here to witness it, nonetheless. Will you stay long enough to verify it worked?"

Her face fell a little. "I'd best not. I'll rely on you to send me a message informing me of our success or failure. I'm sure with the Warden threat, we'll be communicating quite a bit."

"At least Lady Montilyet arranged for you to go by boat. You'll be back in Skyhold before the end of the week. Enjoy the bitter cold, lass."

Her answering smirk was enough of a response, and Rylen finally looked away to see how the other soldiers fared. The rain had mostly stopped, so many of them had begun hanging up their clothes on lines stretched out between tent poles. Rylen sighed and reached down to pick up a wet tunic. Wringing out most of the water, he threw it over his head and then gathered up his clothes. Just as he was about to step away, Rozellene spoke again.

"I'll be glad to get back, honestly. As much as I _adore_ your company, I miss..." she trailed off, her eyes softening as she stared off to the east where the dark clouds were receding.

"You miss...?" Rylen prompted carefully, unsure if he should say something or not.

On one hand, who she pined for was her own business. On the other, Rozellene had become a close friend over the past several months, and he felt an almost brotherly protectiveness whenever he thought of her being hurt in any way - even if no one were really at fault for it.

"I miss Nicson, honestly," she finally admitted without looking at him. "You know, we've never been apart so long since we've known each other?"

Rylen knew she and her corporal friend had been on the King's guard together in Denerim before they came to the Inquisition, but he found himself looking at her in vague surprise nonetheless. But perhaps she felt for her Corporal Nicson the same way he felt about her. He'd never once thought of Rozellene as more than a friend and knew she felt the same about him, but he'd die for her in battle without batting an eye. What they shared was deeper than that silly, fleeting romantic love that poets swore by. They'd been hardened in battle together. They were siblings in arms.

"Well, you'll be together and causing mischief again all too soon, no doubt," he replied. "Then you'll finally have a chance to miss _me_."

She whipped her head around, a smirk on her lips, and he winked at her. She'd just reached down to scoop up her own clothes when a call went up from the lookout.

"Inquisition soldiers arriving at the gate!"

Rylen and Rozellene looked at each other and then down at themselves. "Well, leave it to Kirel to arrive a day early," Rylen grumbled with no real venom.

With a laugh, Rozellene threw her clothes over the nearest free line and pulled on a pair of trousers. Rylen threw his own clothes on another line and followed her down. They descended the final stairs into the lowest level, but stopped a few steps from the bottom to take in the scene.

Soldiers surrounded the well, eager to see if the water had made any difference - even though they wouldn't be able to really tell until the next day. The gate stood open, and more Inquisition soldiers poured in by the second. The wide expanse of courtyard quickly descended into chaos, and Rylen shook his head in amusement before raising his voice.

"Attention!"

Soldiers in every position scrambled to attention. Most attempted to form lines in order to give him access to the main gate. With the clouds moving out, the dim light of the dying day illuminated the courtyard in a final gleam of golden light.

And that's when _she_ walked in.

He froze, every muscle in his body tensing in astonishment. He squeezed his eyes shut, sure that his mind was simply playing tricks on him, but when he opened them again, there she stood, soaked to the bone, a ragged cloak and thin dress clinging to her luscious curves like sin incarnate. The warmth of the evening light lent her tawny skin an unearthly glow and heralded her as some kind of lucid dream, but no matter how he denied the possibility of her presence, she refused to disappear as a figment of a lyrium-addled brain might. No, the strange woman who had occasionally haunted his dreams and waking thoughts for almost four months did not disappear and, in fact, chose that exact moment to turn her penetrating gaze on him. He could only feel a slight tremor of triumph in the midst of his own confusion as her body tensed and eyes widened at the sight of him. At least she seemed to remember him, too.

 _Trice_... a voice whispered in his head. He shouldn't recall her face, let alone her name.

But, oh, Maker, did he remember.

Then a small face peeked out from behind her skirts, and he suddenly remembered that this haunting woman also had children. And she'd brought at least one of them here, of all places - to a demon, darkspawn and varghest infested desert on the cusp of war! Had she lost her senses? Had the advisors lost _their_ senses?

A sudden rush of conflicting emotions welled up inside him, confusing him further, so he grabbed on to the one he recognized. The forced clarity set his feet in motion, and he watched her eyes widen further as he approached her with incredible speed and intention. A dim awareness and appreciation for how she stood her ground nearly distracted him, but he pushed it away as he finally reached her position. Looming over her, his voice lowered into a near growl.

"And what in the bloody Void are _you_ doing here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand eight chapters in, our main characters are finally in the same place at the same time for an extended duration!!! ... At least, if Trice has anything to say about it. If Rylen has his way, she'll be leaving with Rozellene the next morning...


	9. Getting off to a rocky start, aren't we?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the captain's strange behavior, Trice resolves to make the best of her situation. Rylen resolves to get her as far away from him as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 occurs at the beginning of Chapter 46 of Part 1.

Although intimidated, Trice managed to stay planted as Knight-Captain Rylen barreled down on her. Of course it _would_ be him. She'd been so concerned with getting out of Val Royeaux, she hadn't considered it before, but she should have anticipated that he would be here, that he would be _in charge_ here. From his reaction, he clearly remembered her, though his intensity baffled her. But surely Marcel wouldn't have sent her here if the captain were a danger to her... or to her secret?

All further thought scattered as he stopped mere inches from her and glowered at her before growling, "And what in the bloody Void are _you_ doing here?"

Shivers exploded down her spine at the sound - so primal, so thoroughly _angry_. She tried to unstick her tongue from the top of her mouth, but before she could manage it, Jacques' slipped his hand into hers and spoke in a firm, confident voice.

"You'll not be mean to my mother, or you'll have me to answer to!"

The captain looked down at the boy in surprise, but her brave, beautiful Jacques didn't back down. To her utter shock, Knight-Captain Rylen, though still seething with unaccountable anger, backed up a step before returning his gaze to Trice.

"Jacques!" she exclaimed, wincing at how her voice trembled but forging ahead all the same. "Please, let me handle this, sweetheart."

She gave Jacques' hand a reassuring squeeze, but she couldn't seem to yank her gaze away from the cold blue eyes glaring down at her. His face reminded her of the thunder clouds that had recently rolled over them, and she only just managed to contain the hysterical laughter threatening to spill between them at the nonsensical thought.

"Well?" the captain growled - though in a slightly softer tone, she noticed - when she didn't immediately answer.

From the corner of her eye, Trice caught sight of a confused-looking woman in a shift and trousers approaching them. The informal clothing - nearly indecent, really - caused a shock of realization to shoot up her spine. Trice ripped her gaze from the piercing eyes trying to hold her prisoner and finally registered his disheveled state. She took in his charmingly mussed black hair curling at the ends from the dampness and his shirt and half breeches clinging to his powerfully muscled form before she lowered her gaze to his naked calves and very bare feet.

Suddenly, he didn't seem nearly as intimidating. She returned her eyes to his, this time with the beginnings of an amused smile playing about her lips and a much firmer hold on her emotions.

"I believe you are expecting me... err... Knight-Captain Rylen, was it? I am Patrice Valera. But you may call me Trice. We met before, if you'll remember. On the docks in Val Royeaux."

As she spoke, the anger in his eyes drained away to be replaced by astonishment. The calm settled more firmly in her bones, and she took the opportunity to recall her previous encounter with him. Had he been exasperated? Yes. Condescending? Slightly. Dangerous? No. In fact, the more she thought on it, the more she became convinced that she had nothing to fear from the man. He'd been so helpful, so solicitous. This side of him - the glowering, feral side - had to be all bark and no bite.

"Valera?" he muttered absently. Then, in a voice coated in surprise and disbelief, he managed, " _You_ are Valera?"

"I see you did receive word of my arrival, then."

He stared at her a moment before nodding slowly. The woman behind him chose that moment to finally cut in.

"Everything alright, Captain?"

He turned away from Trice to address the scantily dressed woman, his voice still reflecting his shock. "She's... the new cook. Chef Valera."

Instantly, the other woman's face morphed from confusion to warm welcome. She approached and energetically pumped Trice's offered hand.

"Oh! Thank the Maker!" Turning to address the men and women - also shockingly lacking in uniforms and clothing in general - her voice echoed through the courtyard. "Alright you vermin, not only did the day bring you rain, it brought you a cook as well. Let's make her feel welcome!"

A loud cheer rose up from those gathered, and Trice couldn't help the wide smile that spread across her face even as her cheeks warmed in embarrassment at the attention. The woman, her eyes bright with joy - and... was that mischief? - turned back to Trice with a grin.

"I'm Lieutenant Rozellene, but you can just call me Rozellene as you're a civilian and I don't stand too much on ceremony. You say you've already met our Captain?"

The woman, Rozellene, turned not to Trice but to Knight-Captain Rylen for an answer. The man hadn't taken his eyes off her since Rozellene interrupted, but at her questioning glance, he turned to address his subordinate.

"Eh... yes... we met very briefly when Inquisition supplies went missing during the trip here."

He turned back to Trice, and she saw it then, his brief glance to her throat. It took all her fortitude not to instinctively cover her neck with her hand. The scratches had long ago healed without scarring, thank the Maker, but he made her feel as if they might suddenly reappear simply from the intensity of his stare. His gaze didn't linger, however, and when he looked into her face again, he narrowed his eyes in vague suspicion.

"I believe you were acquainted with the man who helped us out of that bind. A Marcel something?"

She nodded, careful to keep her face neutral. "Marcel Guerin and his wife Nellie are friends of mine, yes."

The shock seemed to be wearing off, and the suspicious glint in his eye became more pronounced. "So that's how you came to be here, is it? Taking advantage of the kindness of friends in influential Inquisition positions?"

Apparently he did have a bite after all. Trice's face flushed in embarrassment at how close his words came to the truth. But even if it were true, how _dare_ he judge her? He didn't know her, didn't know her circumstances! After a heartbeat of wordless shock, anger flooded through her, causing a restlessness in her limbs as she resisted the urge to lash out at him physically. She could do better than that. Instantly, her neutral expression dissolved into a sugar-coated maelstrom of sarcasm normally reserved for errant kitchen staff.

"Oh, yes," she sneered, "you've found me out, Captain. This lovely pit in the middle of a _Maker-forsaken desert_ is just where I would have chosen to be sent."

"Well, clearly _someone_ made a mistake," he spat out in measured tones, as if talking to a simpleton. "You, and especially," he gestured downward, "your _children,_ don't belong here."

Beside him, Rozellene's mouth dropped open before she snapped it shut and placed her body between Trice and the Captain. "Err... Captain?" the other woman queried, an edge of warning in her voice. "Lieutenant Kirel is waiting for you. Don't worry about our guests. I'll make sure our _long-anticipated and much appreciated_ chef wants for nothing."

When he gave no sign of moving away, Rozellene grabbed his arm to pull at him in what Trice thought must be a show of insubordination. Instead of setting the other woman down, however, he grudgingly stepped away from Trice, his eyes only leaving hers at the last possible moment to glance over her children before he headed toward the gate.

Just before they moved out of earshot, Trice overheard Rozellene hiss at him, "What in the Maker's name is _wrong_ with you?"

Trice wondered the same even as her body trembled in the aftermath of the confrontation. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as equal parts fear and rage churned inside her. She willfully ignored the voice that reminded her of her own doubts about bringing her children to such a place and instead marveled at the change in the considerate man she'd met in Val Royeaux. If she hadn't been so completely thrown off guard by his antipathy, she might have gotten in a parting shot. Next time, she'd be prepared.

She sighed as the unwanted but unavoidable disappointment coursed through her. _All this time I've been fixated on a man who, as it turns out, is a complete and utter ass._

"Unsurprising, considering my luck," she muttered to herself.

"I don't care if he is a captain," Jacques said sulkily. "I didn't like him before, and I don't like him now. He shouldn't talk to you like that."

Rousing herself from her musings, Trice let go of Jacques' hand to wrap her arm around him and pull him to her side. "Well, I'm not sure I like him very much, either, but we need a place to stay. We'll have to deal with it, I guess. Perhaps he's just having a bad day."

Jacques snorted in disbelief. Trice had to admit she felt the same.

"Mama, are we going to have to leave before I ride the Griffon?" Clara asked plaintively.

Trice picked up Clara and nuzzled the girl's nose. "No, dove, we're not leaving. And I believe your brother was right after all, do you see the stone griffon above? The place must be named for that statue."

Trice pointed to the massive griffon carved into the rock used as the foundation of the keep. Then, as Clara cooed over the stone sculpture, Trice looked around at her new surroundings for the first time.

And found everyone staring at her.

Luckily, Rozellene returned at that moment and gave them all another broad smile. "And who are the additional Valeras in your group, madame?"

"I'm Jacques," her son offered, a tentative smile on his face.

Rozellene extended her arm to the boy, and Jacques' smile turned to a grin as they shook hands. "Very nice to meet you, Master Jacques," she said solemnly.

"I'm Clara Valera!" Clara crowed... and then she promptly dissolved into giggles.

Jacques rolled his eyes and leaned in as if to tell Rozellene a secret. Rozellene, clearly amused, leaned in as well and turned her ear to the boy.

"Don't mind her," Jacques whispered loudly so Clara would hear. "She's just a silly little kid."

Clara's giggles stopped abruptly as she flung a foot at her brother, barely missing his shoulder. "I'm not silly. _You're_ silly."

Trice turned Clara away from her brother. "Jacques, don't bait your sister like that, and no kicking, Clara. We've discussed this." Trice turned to Rozellene with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about them. I think we're all just a little cranky from the journey. It wasn't exactly... pleasant."

"Oh, I have no doubt!" Rozellene laughed. Then, sobering, she gave Trice a concerned glance. " _I'm_ sorry about Captain Rylen's less than welcoming behavior. I don't know what's come over him."

Trice tried not to let her curiosity show as she queried lightly, "Oh, is he not usually so incredibly rude?"

"No," Rozellene confirmed with a half-smile. "He's normally even tempered, if a bit sarcastic. Things here have been tense lately, though. Maybe you'll consider reserving judgment until you've spoken with him a little more?"

Trice couldn't hide her reluctance, but she also had no wish to alienate the one person who seemed to be truly glad of their arrival. "I'm sure once he tastes my cooking, he'll change his tune."

Rozellene's face cleared as she nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! I'm sure you're right. He's just... Well, I don't know what, actually, but I'm sure he'll be fine tomorrow. Shall I show you around? We're a bit off schedule what with the rain interrupting our normal routines, but all the rooms are still where they should be, I'd wager."

The woman's earnest smile and sparkling grey-green eyes disarmed Trice completely. "I'd like that, although perhaps we can start with our room? I think the children could use a warm bed and a good night's sleep."

"But I want to tour the keep with you!" Jacques objected loudly in a voice sounding suspiciously like a whine.

"We'll see," Trice placated, although she was sure he would be fast asleep before she ever left the room. "For now, let's go find some dry clothes."

Jacques reluctantly acquiesced, and Rozellene began walking through the courtyard toward a wide set of stairs. With Rozellene's reappearance, the soldiers in the courtyard seemed to have become far more interested in their duties, but Trice saw more than one look up at her with curiosity. They began climbing the staircase, but in the arch halfway up to the next level, Rozellene turned left into a narrow passageway. The coolness of the dark hallway surprised Trice, and she held Clara close as the cold air chilled their wet clothes.

A soldier halfway down the passage stopped to salute Rozellene before continuing with his duty of lighting a sconce. Trice felt the sudden presence of magic and barely contained a gasp of surprise at the blatant and apparently condoned use of magic in the keep. Before Kirkwall, mages had been a common sight in Val Royeaux, working freely in the city at the behest of the nobles who sponsored them. But she hadn't seen a mage openly practicing magic for years. She'd heard that the Inquisition had sided with the mages, that the Inquisitor herself was a mage, but to see such casual use of magic... especially with a Knight-Captain as commander of the keep... Trice shook her head in bewilderment before looking up to see Rozellene gazing at her with a knowing half smile.

"It's been an adjustment to say the least, but then again, I never had as much trouble with the idea of free mages as the templars. After all, mages have been free in Ferelden since the Blight."

"You weren't a templar before the Inquisition, then?"

"Nope. Before this, I served in Denerim in the King's Guard for almost ten years."

Trice's eyes widened in surprise. "Ten years? But... you look so young..."

Rozellene smiled at that. "Perhaps I am, but they weren't about to reject anyone who had fought during the Blight, even a seventeen-year-old. After so many died in battle or later from the Taint, they desperately needed bodies in uniform, and I fit... barely."

Trice processed this knowledge with a gulp. She stood in the presence of a veteran of the Fifth Blight? Jacques was apparently equally awed.

"Awww! The Blight! Did you fight the archdemon!?"

Rozellene reached down to ruffled his hair, but Trice could see the strain in her face as she thought back to those times. "I didn't. I was in the streets of Denerim fighting Darkspawn. But I saw when the demon fell at the hand of the Hero."

Jacques made a boyish sound of utter glee and, if Trice knew her son, was preparing to pepper the woman with a dozen more questions. Eager to not tax the woman with unpleasant memories, Trice turned the subject back to their original discussion.

"So then you are not as against magic as the templars here?"

"Not at all. To me, wielding magic is like wielding a sword. It's only dangerous in the hands of the ignorant or the enemy. But some of the templars here only tolerate it because Captain Rylen is watching them. They don't dare go against him. And most of them do respect our Inquisitor despite the fact that she's a mage."

"I've heard she's lovely," Trice offered, thinking back to Nellie's letters describing the Inquisition's leader.

"Oh, yes," Rozellene said in a subdued tone. "Lithe and pretty. Smart. Quiet. Seems untouchable, above it all, like a Herald of our Andraste should be. Also, deceptively dangerous. As in the 'she can immolate your face off in a split second' kind of dangerous."

"Niiice!" Jacques breathed.

"Oh, she's already charmed you, and she's not even here, eh?" Rozellene exclaimed before huffing out a short, almost sad sigh. "Sounds about right."

"You sound like you don't entirely agree with everyone else's opinion," Trice observed carefully.

"Oh, no!" Rozellene denied as she stopped abruptly in the torch-lit passage. "That's just the thing. I do. She's... well, she's our leader for good reason. She saved us all in Haven - sacrificed herself so people could have a chance to escape. She really is a hero." Her voice lowered as she added under her breath, "And it makes her impossible to compete with."

Vague understanding dawned as Trice watched Rozellene turn back to lead them further down the long passage. The other woman must have wanted to be with someone who in turn pined for the Inquisitor. Trice decided to let silence reign as they passed by door after door until she felt a chill breeze coming from somewhere ahead. They reached the end of the hallway, and Rozellene opened a door directly across from a set of stairs.

"The stairs there lead up to the hall just outside the kitchens," Rozellene explained. "I thought you'd like to be close. Plus, this room actually has windows, even though the statue blocks the view."

Rozellene led them into a spacious room with a large bed at the far end of the room, a desk and chair on her left and a single soft chair next to a table and empty bookcase on her right. She let out an internal sigh of relief at the relative cleanliness of the room. Even the sheets and blankets on the bed looked fresh.

"I'm sorry for the lack of cots. We didn't... no one told us you'd have children with you."

Trice turned to look into Rozellene's apologetic face. Suddenly, the Captain's response to her appearance made a little more sense. Of course Marcel had not mentioned she'd be bringing children. Such a thing would have likely ruined her chances of getting the position, even with Marcel's "influential Inquisition position."

"My apologies. I wasn't aware my friend had overlooked that detail."

"Ah... I wondered." Rozellene cleared her throat and glanced away before adding, "To be blunt, madame-"

"Trice, please."

"Trice, then. To be perfectly honest, we all thought you'd be... a man. The message only referred to you as Chef Valera. We shouldn't have assumed, but, well..."

Trice couldn't help it. She laughed out loud. Clara, who had already fallen asleep, grumbled into Trice's ear at the disturbance, and Trice did her best to curb her amusement. Marcel had not only omitted her children... he'd worded the missive to sound as if she were a man as well! Dear, deceptive Marcel. He _had_ promised to protect her at all costs, though, hadn't he?

She'd already made a wretched beginning of her new life in the far reaches of Orlais. But in the end, she'd made it here. They were safely ensconced in a well-guarded keep where Lady Rousseau would never dream to look for them. That had to count for something.

"Well, there _is_ one thing you can safely assume," Trice finally responded, her voice laced with amusement and determination.

"What's that?"

"I'm a damn good chef, and I'll make certain your captain and all your soldiers know exactly what they'll be losing if they ever try to send me away."

 

___________________________

 

Rylen could barely pay attention to Kirel. The detail-driven man's report on their journey to the Approach had all the appeal of a soak in a sulfur pit compared to the events of the past few minutes. Despite repeated efforts to focus, Rylen's mind returned time and again to flashing black-brown eyes and to small faces looking up at him from behind tattered skirts.

The thought gave him pause. When last he'd seen her, she'd been well appointed to the point of being fashionable... She'd also sported vicious scratches on her neck that still sent cold chills of rage down his spine.

"Captain?"

Rylen snapped back to attention in time to see Lieutenant Kirel give him a curious look. Rylen cleared his throat and attempted again to engage with the lieutenant.

"Sorry. It's been a strange day, what with the rain and the... unexpected arrivals."

"I admit we pushed a little harder than was necessary to get here," Kirel said, "but we expected to have to wait at least a day for the lady chef to meet us. When she arrived not two hours after we'd made camp, I saw no need to delay departure."

Curiosity sparked at the lieutenant's words. "Where did she meet you? How did she arrive?"

Kirel folded his arms and tapped a finger on his jaw as if trying to remember. "We were ordered to meet with her where the Southern Port road meets with the Imperial Highway. I _believe_ she walked into the camp, though I did not see her arrive. It took the men a while to understand her purpose and get her to me. I doubted her at first what with... well... the children and all. But she provided the proper papers from Lady Montilyet, so I've brought her here as ordered. Is there a problem?"

Rylen hesitated. He often confided in Rozellene and knew he would get honest answers from his friend. However, he didn't know Lieutenant Kirel as well. He would keep his personal thoughts on the strange woman to himself... for now.

"Not necessarily. It will require an adjustment in plans is all."

"If it makes any difference," Kirel offered, "the staff and merchants often bring family to their posts. As we set up more supply lines and more soldiers join us, I'd guess they won't be the only children here for long."

Rylen stared at his lieutenant for a moment as he considered the man's words before dropping his eyes to stare at the sand beneath his feet. His bare feet. And completely inappropriate clothes. _Maker's breath._

"I should probably make myself a bit more presentable," he said as he gestured at his state of undress. "Get your soldiers settled - Corporal Addison is already showing them their quarters, I believe."

Kirel saluted and turned away, and Rylen did the same. He slowly made his way to the upper level, his thoughts gravitating once more toward the woman proclaiming to be their permanent cook. His mind whirled in a million directions at once, but one thought stood out: The advisors had made a terrible mistake.

How could anyone think sending children to a war zone was a good idea? He hadn't thought about staff and merchants, but he'd be sure to discourage that in future correspondence as well. Maker's truth, they were only miles from where their enemy spent day and night building up a demon army... and now he had _children_ to worry about.

"Andraste's fucking sword!" he cursed under his breath.

The only answer would be send all three of them back to Val Royeaux. Immediately. And then request a new cook from Lady Montilyet - even if it did make him look like an ungrateful wretch.

A sudden vision of her defiant stance and dark looks warned him that convincing this supposed chef to leave might be more difficult than a simple order. By Andraste's pyre, he'd bodily carry her back to Val Royeaux if he had to!

 _That_ thought sent his brain in an entirely inappropriate direction, and he scrambled for a distraction. Unfortunately, his subconscious chose to resurrect the vivid image of red welts crisscrossing otherwise pristine ochre skin, reminding him that perhaps she wasn't addled but merely desperate. Was she running from something? Someone? What could be so bad that it would lead her to the most remote and dangerous location the Inquisition had to offer?

He growled in frustration as he shoved away his sympathy and his innate desire to solve this particular problem. It didn't _matter_ why she'd come. She could not stay! He'd only just begun to stop thinking of her in recent weeks. Now she was _here_ \- a distraction he couldn't afford in light of the danger awaiting them at Adamant Fortress. If she couldn't return to Val Royeaux, perhaps he could convince her to simply go elsewhere. Surely another Inquisition installation would have use for her. Caer Bronach, perhaps?

He emerged on the upper level to find that his clothes and linens were already half dry - one advantage to living in a desert, he supposed. The temperature, however, had plummeted with the rain, and a stiff breeze caused goosebumps to erupt where the damp shirt and breeches clung to his skin. He focused on the feeling in an attempt to prevent his thoughts from returning to the one subject his subconscious seemed determined to keep in the forefront of his mind.

As he distractedly descended the back stairs to his room, he nearly ran into Rozellene emerging from the end room. She startled, but then quickly closed the door behind her.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, feeling like an ass even as the words continued to pour from his mouth. "I thought you were touring our _new additions_ around the keep?"

Rozellene's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before her expression evened out. Rylen had the distinct and uncomfortable impression he was about to be "managed."

"She is dressing herself and her children in dry clothing. I plan to do the same and then collect a few things she wasn't able to bring with her. Apparently, she had very little notice of her departure and only grabbed bare necessities."

"And what does that mean, I wonder?" Rylen muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "What is she needing, then?"

"Blankets to make pallets for the children until cots can be acquired, a quill, ink and some slips of parchment, and a chest to store her and the children's clothing."

"Be sure to keep track of everything for inventory."

She didn't need to roll her eyes for Rylen to understand her thoughts on his unfeeling order. "Of course, and I'll provide her with the change necessary from the payment she's offered for the goods, too."

Rozellene opened her hand briefly before snapping her fingers around the coins once more. And Rylen felt like even more of an ass. And yet, he couldn't seem to help it.

"See that you do. We have accounts to keep."

"And Muriel will keep them well, just as she's always done. Once the rest of the troops are settled, you'll need to see about cots for the children."

Rylen's brows rose in surprise. "Why me?"

"Because she's here to assist _you_ in raising morale. The least you can do is provide adequate sleeping quarters for her and her children."

Rylen couldn't keep silent any longer. His voice rose along with the anger that had simmered close to the surface since her arrival.

"Children! Yes! _Children!_ Here! As one privy to the reports coming from our scouts, you of all people should understand what a disaster that is! We stand mere miles away from possibly the largest army of demons to ever walk Thedas. It's not safe, Rozellene! You know that!"

Before Rozellene could respond, the door behind them flew open. Rozellene whirled around, and a heavy silence thickened the air. Trice Valera stood before them, eyes flashing in all their glittering black glory. She'd changed into a dry, quite presentable gown of deep blue, but instead of the neat bun at the back of her head, her onyx hair cascaded over her shoulders in a riot of damp waves ending just below the swell of her full breasts.

_Maker's breath, do not think about her breasts!_

"Knight-Captain Rylen," she began in soft, dulcet tones. At any other moment, from any other person, the use of his templar title would have gratified him to no end. But the way her lips twisted the words, the title had the effect of a dagger in his gut. "I believe you are under the misapprehension that I am unaware of the situation here in the Approach. I assure you, I am well apprised of the danger that lurks in this desert. I'm also aware that you have a difficult time keeping your men from despondency, which, considering their... _situation_ , is not surprising."

The unmistakable edge of ice in her tone and her hesitation left him in no doubt of the implications of her words: _With you as a captain, no wonder they're desperate._ He opened his mouth to counter, but she apparently wasn't finished, yet.

"My children and I are here at the behest of the Inquisitor herself, who approved a plan put in place by her advisors to correct what is _lacking_ at Griffon Wing Keep. You were right that my friend recommended me for the position. He did so because I am the best. And you, my _dear_ Captain, are clearly in need of the best, especially in these... _circumstances_."

She waved a disdainful hand around in a broad gesture meant to include himself as well as the keep. An unwelcome but powerful admiration for her audacity flooded through him even as he struggled to contain the anger in his cutting response.

"I'm so relieved that you've deigned to condescend to us mere mortals, your highness," he replied with an elaborate bow and a flourish of his own hand. "What a relief that you value the morale of the Inquisition over the safety of your children."

Her mouth dropped open, full lips forming a little O of surprise, before it morphed into a patronizing smile. "Are you saying you are too weak to protect your keep, Captain?"

"No, your highness," he retorted with an equally false smile, "I'm saying you're apparently too daft to know when you've waded in over your head."

Trice's eyes narrowed, and Rylen smiled in triumph. Rozellene had been waving furiously at him from where she'd maneuvered to stand behind his adversary, and he took a moment to acknowledge her - cutting off any reply from Trice in the process.

"Lieutenant, you may go on your way. I promise I won't enact violence upon her person." His eyes flicked back to Trice as all pretense of humor drained from his face. "No matter how sorely I am tempted."

"Captain, perhaps you... ahh..." Rozellene began before she seemed to realize she'd been about to give him an order.

"Yes, yes," he said as he waved off Rozellene's concerns, "I have things to do. We all do."

Rozellene hesitated another moment, but at a look from Trice, his lieutenant finally turned and hurried up the stairs to her own quarters above. Despite how it rankled, Rylen determined that retreat would be the best course of action for the time being. He turned to walk down the hall to his room - thankfully at the complete opposite end of the passage from hers - but a low, mocking voice stopped him.

"Giving up so soon? I'd have thought you had more backbone than that."

He stopped, the anger again mixing with that annoying rush of admiration. She didn't back down from a challenge. He could respect that - even if he couldn't let it stand. Turning slowly, he walked back, noting for the first time the hairbrush in her hand. Her white-knuckled hand. He didn't stop until he'd crowded as close to her as he dared. The now familiar and almost painful awareness of her made him suddenly doubt the wisdom of his plan. Still, he soldiered on. Leaning forward, he spoke in a low tone directly into her ear.

"You and your children will be leaving tomorrow morning, Madame Valera. I wouldn't get too comfortable."

She shivered almost imperceptibly. Backing away slightly to judge her expression, he was surprised to see the saccharine smile return to her face. Her eyes focused somewhere on his left shoulder, but it was the touch of her free hand coming to rest lightly on his chest that undid him. It took all he had to cover his reaction as his insides turned to fire and all blood flowed southward away from his brain.

Her touch burned through the thin, damp linen, reminding him forcefully of the long months between him and when he'd last been touched by a woman. A gorgeous woman. A veritable desire demon. She slowly lifted her head to look at him through thick, dark lashes - pinned him with her gaze. He couldn't have looked away if the whole damned demon army had shown up at his doorstep and demanded an audience then and there.

"We'll see about that, won't we?" she finally whispered, the words playing across dusky lips he suddenly and desperately wanted to taste.

Without another word, she whirled away from him and reentered her own room, closing the door softly behind her - another reminder of the children currently ensconced in his keep. He had no idea how long he stood outside her door before he finally broke whatever spell she'd woven around him and returned to his room in his blackest mood yet.

And more aggravating still was the fact that, as he ordered soldiers later that night to ensure the three Valeras left with Rozellene the following morning, he could still feel the press of her hand through his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are pretty antagonistic at this point, but they'll both calm down to merely sassy soon enough.


	10. Let's make a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice's confidence grows. And Rylen underestimates the tenacity of a mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end scene of Chapter 10 occurs on the same day as the end of Chapter 46 through the beginning of Chapter 49 of Part 1.

Trice leaned against the closed door, grabbed both shoulders and hugged herself in an attempt to stop the shaking. She'd never in her life done such a thing before - couldn't account for it even now. She'd behaved in an almost... wanton manner with him, and the memory of the solid, unyielding muscle under her hand still left her breathless.

The infuriating man had driven her to it, of course, by calling into question her dedication to her children's safety. She knew she should have let him walk away, but in the end, she couldn't allow it. His snide voice replaying in her head - calling her dedication and intelligence into question - had compelled her to speak, to challenge him.

But she never should have touched him like that, spoken to him in such a provocative tone. Now what must he think of her?

 _No. I don't care. I can't care._ Her hands dropped to her sides as she stood up straight. Her only thought had to be for her children.

Moving quietly to the other side of the room, she looked down at both children fast asleep on the simple but solid bed. Jacques' body leaned against the headboard, his head hanging at what looked like a painful angle. He'd sworn when he sat down next to his sister that he would only rest his eyes, but she'd known better.

Walking to his side, she carefully helped him lie down in the bed. He groaned a little, his eyelids fluttering as his heavy head hit the pillow.

"'Z'it time for the tour?" he mumbled sleepily.

Trice shook her head and then kissed his sleep-warmed cheek. "No, love. We'll have a tour later. I find I'm quite tired."

Jacques nodded, satisfied that he wouldn't miss anything, and closed his eyes once more. His breathing evened into the soft sounds of slumber almost immediately. Trice looked to Clara, but the girl hadn't moved an inch from where Trice had placed her an hour ago as she spoke with Rozellene.

Trice frowned at the memory of her conversation with the lieutenant. Rozellene seemed like she might be a true ally, but the other woman would be leaving early tomorrow morning for Skyhold. Considering the distance, Trice knew it would be a long time - if ever - before she saw Rozellene again. Taking advantage of the available and friendly font of information, Trice had kept the woman talking as long as possible about the inner workings of the keep and had quickly taken stock of what they would need to be comfortable in the place. Trice had no intention of leaving and knew she'd likely find another ally somewhere eventually, but she could already see that Rozellene had a closer relationship with the captain than the average lieutenant. Without the other woman's influence to mitigate his anger - especially considering Trice planned to thwart him at every turn - the captain could easily poison everyone here against her before she'd had a chance to get to know anyone else.

Trice gritted her teeth and began quietly pacing up and down the dimly lit room. How could she fight him? He seemed set against her for some reason, but there had to be a way to get around him. She thought back to the way the soldiers had whooped and hollered at the announcement of her arrival. Could it really be as simple as with the staff at Madame d'Eriani's? Could she cook her way into their hearts before the captain had a chance to turn them against her?

She crossed her arms and brought up a finger to tap at her chin. If she could get to the kitchens before anyone awoke in the morning and have a breakfast ready for them...

But how many lived here? Where were the supplies? She would need help - the staff that Marcel had promised would be available to her. Who were they? How could she get a message to them?

A soft knock on her door brought her back to herself. Putting her arms out in front of her in the now dark room, she walked toward the door and felt for the handle. To her relief, Rozellene stood on the other side of the door bearing an armful of blankets and a single candle.

"The children are sleeping, so we'll need to be quiet," Trice whispered.

"Of course," Rozellene whispered back.

The lieutenant entered the room, placed the supplies on the table and then immediately turned toward the desk, candle in hand. At Trice's questioning glance, Rozellene opened the top drawer to reveal a stack of additional candles.

"Muriel, our quartermaster, told me she'd already ordered basic supplies to your room." Rozellene pulled out a holder from the back of the drawer and placed it on the desk while shoving the end of the candle into the stand. She then opened the middle desk drawer. "You'll find parchment and writing supplies here. She indicated she'd be awaiting your first request for supplies at your earliest convenience."

Trice nodded before asking, "How many soldiers are here right now?"

"With Kirel's additions, that brings us to around 500 here in the Approach."

Trice couldn't help the tiny intake of breath at the sheer number of people. Rozellene's eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly.

"Oh no, they aren't all here at once. With the rotations out to the camps and patrols, only about 100 soldiers and staff actually live here at a time. It's still a lot, I know, but you won't be expected to provide for the camps. And you'll have soldiers assigned to you for clean up and staff to do most of the actual cooking."

A perfect opening. "And how do I know my staff? How will I call them together?"

Rozellene grimaced. "Well, that would be the Captain's job to call them all together for you, but..."

"The Captain has already informed me I am to leave with you in the morning."

Rozellene tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling before closing her eyes with a long-suffering sigh. Trice took a fortifying breath, hoping her instincts to trust this woman wouldn't be proven wrong. _Now or never._

"I have no intention of going with you, however," Trice finished with calm conviction.

Rozellene's brows shot up before a slow smile and satisfied expression crept onto her face. "How can I help?"

Trice smiled back, relief and - something far more precious - hope flaring. "I need to see the kitchen immediately and find at least a few staff who would be willing to help me early tomorrow morning."

"And the soldiers who have undoubtedly been ordered to retrieve you tomorrow morning?"

Trice clenched her teeth in determination before replying firmly, "I will avoid them. And if all else fails, I will feed them until they cannot remember why they ever wanted me to leave."

"You've got spirit, I'll give you that," Rozellene said with a quiet laugh.

"Oh, I assure you," Trice said as the smile threatened to grow into a grin, "I've got more than that."

"So I'm beginning to see." Rozellene's expression turned thoughtful. "You know, I could also help out by setting out a little earlier than planned. Then, Captain would have to send you out separately, which would take several days to arrange - days you could use to further win the hearts of the soldiers here."

"Yes," Trice acknowledged, "that's the plan."

"I'm almost sorry I won't be here to witness your success... but then again, the Captain around you is a different sort of beast than I've ever seen before. I'm honestly not sure what to make of him anymore."

Trice hummed her acknowledgement, struck by the essence of the words spoken for the second time in so many hours - that he acted differently around her than he did around anyone else. She couldn't decided whether to be satisfied that she had such an upsetting effect on him or offended that he seemed to think her undeserving, unworthy of his typical respect.

"Well, I don't plan to give up without a fight. He may think my and my children's presence here is dangerous, but tell me Rozellene, what would happen to us if the Inquisition doesn't manage to win the coming battle?"

Rozellene swallowed, her eyes darting to the bed where the children slumbered, and her already quiet voice lowered to a near whisper. "If we can't stop it here, the army would march across Thedas, razing everything in its path." Her clear green eyes, now filled with sadness, turned back upon Trice. "You and your children would die anyway, as would we all."

Trice nodded, the visions painted by Rozellene's words strengthening her resolve even as her body shuddered violently. Aware of how easily she lost herself in such thoughts, she attempted to push away the images crowding her brain.

The visions pushed back.

Trice quickly lost hold of her calm as the visions morphed into familiar but unwelcome flashes in the back of her mind. Panic settled high in her chest, and she began breathing slowly, calmly, in an attempt to regain control in the way she had many other times throughout her life. But to her burgeoning horror, the flashes continued, encroaching on her vision and startling her with a sudden revelation.

She _recognized_ theses flashes. She'd had them before, all those months ago, but only now, as Rozellene described what would happen if they didn't stop the demon army did they take on new meaning... _dead piled high on battlegrounds, demons and evil spirits cutting down innocents as they ravished and burned every good thing between the Approach and the Amaranthine Ocean_.

She vaguely registered Rozellene speaking to her even as cold realization crawled up her spine like the frozen hand of a despair demon. Was this the... the future? Were these flashes that had haunted her for her whole life actually portents of disaster to come?

She shuddered and raised a hand to her forehead as she worked to shut down the flashes, to prevent them from taking over. Rozellene's touch on her arm felt like an anchor in the storm, and she reached out to latch on to the other woman. Slowly, the familiar flashes faded, and Trice came back to herself. She slowly raised her eyes to meet Rozellene's, holding her breath at what she might find.

But she needn't have been worried, for she found only concern in the depths of her new friend's eyes. Trice dropped the hand on her forehead over her eyes to cover the tears that slipped out before she could push those back inside as well.

"Are you alright?" Rozellene asked softly.

"Yes... Yes, I'm just very tired, and sometimes I get... intense headaches without warning. This one appears to have been a false alarm. I am fine now, I assure you."

She let go of the lieutenant's arm as if to prove her words. Thankfully, she did not sway on her feet, though in truth she felt as if she might fall over at any moment.

"Well, we have a healer here if you ever need him. Grafton is his name, and you'll find him on the lower level next to the stables."

"I appreciate that," Trice responded with a wobbly smile.

Rozellene paused before blurting out, "Sorry if my words were too harsh. I tend to be... blunt. It's gotten me in trouble more than once."

"No, please don't worry. I only asked to illustrate the point that no one is safe... which is why I have to have faith that you will win and why I feel as safe here as anywhere else. Perhaps I _am_ a fool, but I have my reasons for being here." She turned away and murmured into the shadowed corners of the room, "And right now, the possible demon army is actually the lesser of two evils."

"Do you still feel up for a look at the kitchens?"

Trice took a deep breath, shaking away the remains of her vision. She couldn't afford to be weak right now. She had a war to wage... and win. She turned and tilted her chin up slightly in defiance of her own weaknesses.

"Absolutely. Lead the way, Lieutenant."

 

___________________________

 

Rylen stalked down the hall, huffing in uncontained rage as the soldiers he'd assigned to see Madame Valera off that morning followed at a safe distance. Rozellene, traitor that she was, had already left earlier than she'd told him she would - almost as if she'd _planned_ this.

His subconscious whispered the truth - that she _had_ planned it. Because as she'd told him last night over a farewell shot of whiskey, he was being irrational. A "Maker-damned irrational asshole" to be precise.

She'd said that and far more, actually. Asked impertinent questions he'd deflected. Made uncomfortable observations he'd ignored, at least outwardly. He'd never cursed her typical bluntness more than in that single, half-hour conversation, and for the first time, he'd actually looked forward to her absence.

Because, though he'd never admit it to her, Rozellene was right.

He'd lain awake late into the night debating whether or not to see them off, to offer an apology to Madame Valera for his overreactions. Then, remembering her touch, the mental imprint of her palm still burning his skin, he ultimately decided against seeing the woman again. With or without him, his soldiers would follow his orders, and the children would be on their way to a safer place, along with their... _distracting_ mother.

But Rozellene had betrayed him, and his soldiers had been unable to follow orders, which meant Madame Valera remained.

He growled in frustration as he took the stairs three at a time up to the third level where the kitchen and storage rooms were located. When he reached the top of the stairs, he came against a wall of people... and the most heavenly smell. The pile of people surrounding the kitchen only stoked the fire of his rage higher, but he took a deep breath, resolving not to lose control again.

"I'm fairly certain all of you have somewhere you're supposed to be at this time of the morning," he said pointedly as he raised his voice over the chaos.

The soldiers closest to him turned, a generous amount of chagrin but also something else hovering in their tired eyes. Something he hadn't seen in weeks. Possibly months.

Excitement rolled off the crowd in waves, and one of the soldiers, a young man of no more than 20, tentatively spoke up. "She made eggs and bacon at dawn and told us to come back a bit after sunrise for _biscuits_ , Captain, with _butter_. May we...?"

The tremble in the young man's voice held no fear, only anticipation. At his question, others had turned to watch, and the hum of soldiers' voices gradually subsided until he could hear the sounds from the kitchen - utensils clacking against metal, bowls scraping against wood, hinges protesting against their own disuse.

"Alright, fine," he relented with something akin to a grumble in his tone. "It's not as if we're preparing to route a demon army or anything. Breakfast is clearly more important. Now let me through, you layabouts."

Despite sheepish looks, an excited chorus of "thank you, ser" and "of course, ser" echoed around him as he pushed to the front. She'd made them breakfast at dawn? How had she managed that?

When he finally reached Trice, the answer to his question became apparent. She'd done it by not sleeping. Her tired eyes skimmed over him as she noted his presence, and he felt a thrill of triumph in the momentary spark that lit her eyes. She quickly composed herself, however, and raised her voice.

"Alright, take your fill, friends! I made plenty."

And indeed, the long work table before him fairly overflowed with hundreds of biscuits, and a giant crock of butter waited at the end. The crowd surged and began talking more excitedly as the mass of people moved through the kitchen and out the other side toward the stairs to the upper level. Each soldier left with at least three biscuits in hand, but still the supply held up.

As the line progressed, he kept his eyes on her, watching her efficient movements around the kitchen. Watching as she deliberately avoided his gaze. He'd intended to unsettle her with his scrutiny, but as with the previous evening, he found he was the one becoming nervous. He shifted his stance, pushing the feeling away. What utter nonsense!

The soldiers eventually cleared out of the kitchen, and with them went the rest of the biscuits. The last man up the stairs held at least seven. His heart racing with anticipation, Rylen allowed the silence to build before finally speaking in a low tone.

"I'm used to the darkspawn ignoring orders - after all, they're a rather unruly lot." His voice took on a sharp edge as he continued. "But I don't much care for it from my staff. You were to leave with Rozellene this morning."

She responded without looking at him. "My orders come from Lady Montilyet at the advisement of Commander Rutherford and the approval of the Inquisitor, our holy Herald of Andraste. Bring me orders from any of those people, and I will gladly do their bidding."

He blinked once in surprise and then clenched his fist at his side as his forced patience wore thin. He had to take a deep breath to keep from yelling something obscene.

"Contrary to what Rozellene might have led you to believe, _I_ am the commander of this keep," he began and then paused briefly to stare at the biscuit slathered in butter she'd shoved in his hand. Where had she been hiding that? He shook his head and continued, deliberately keeping his voice low and calm. "What I say here generally goes. And to disobey an order is grounds for dismissal, your highness, regardless of whatever underhanded dealings might've placed you in my care."

And with that, he took a vicious bite of the biscuit... and a symphony of flavor exploded in his mouth. It took all his strength to hold back the moan of pleasure. The creamy tang of salty butter along with the lightest, fluffiest cloud of pastry he'd ever ingested combined to throw him completely off track.

"Where...? Where did you manage to find butter? Don't tell me you're a mage as well as being a dragon-sized pain in my ass."

She turned to him then, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning her hip against the table in a show of nonchalance. Her thick, perfectly arched brow rose a fraction of an inch.

"Oh, yes, I am a mage who specializes in the ancient and revered art of dairy magic." Rolling her eyes, she then leaned toward him slightly as if imparting a secret. "You do realize you have more than horses in your stables? Five cows and three dozen chickens to be exact... although we'll need more if I am to cook proper meals in this Void-forsaken place."

Ignoring her sarcasm as she'd ignored his, he paused in the midst of taking another giant bite. "You _made_ butter?"

She stared at him as if he had two heads before shaking her head. " _I_ didn't, no. _My_ job is to arrange resources, teach and direct a workforce and maintain adequate supplies to create meals that keep soldiers happy. You have practically an entire army here, half of whom are former farmers or children of farmers. Those folks know how to churn butter, I assure you, and the promise of a decent meal is a great motivator... or perhaps you require more evidence than the line of soldiers standing outside my kitchen this morning?"

 _Her_ kitchen. Taking a last bite of the biscuit, savoring the flavor and fullness it brought, he honed back in on the point. He didn't want to like her. Didn't want to respect her strength and dedication. He wanted her gone.

"Madame, you might be the best cook in Thedas," he ground out, barely holding on to the thin strand of his patience. "The Orlesians of Val Royeaux and beyond might rave over you - though I'll tell you that doesn't rate in my book. But I'm not in the habit of brooking insubordination, even from a civilian staff member. I cannot allow you to stay. Even one so thick-headed as you _must_ see that."

"And yet I _don't_ see it," she shot back, her own patience wearing down as well. "And I will not leave until you provide me with both a dictate from Skyhold and a new position as... ideal for me as this one."

Rylen's brows shot up before narrowing. How in blazes was a keep in the middle of nowhere ideal, unless... ? His suspicions from the previous evening came back full force.

"You're running from something."

She stiffened at his matter-of-fact observation, her eyes falling to the ground before she pushed off from the table and began vigorously cleaning the kitchen table. Tell-tale signs of guilt.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm here because the dry air and the work suit my needs and my talents. I am not _running_ from anything."

Rylen approached her, and once again, she held her ground, scrubbing furiously at the table with a damp rag. Appreciation, stronger this time, mixed with his overwhelming irritation at her continued defiance of his authority. He stopped before coming too close, but even so, a flash of heat rocketed through him at the thought of her nearness. He quickly quashed the feeling.

He looked down at her, and she looked up, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Swathed in light from the line of windows against the far wall, he could see the flecks of brown and grey in her dark eyes. He reminded himself he didn't care about her mysteries. She wouldn't be here long enough for him to discover them anyway.

"Knight-Captain-" she began.

"Just Captain."

The correction flew out of his mouth before he'd even consciously processed her words. He froze, positive his mouth was gaping open. Sure enough, after breaking free from his paralysis, he clapped his jaw shut with a snap. Her expression wavered between confusion and exasperation, but he could not respond. No words - not even to take it back - found their way from his jumbled thoughts to anywhere close to his mouth.

" _Captain_ , then," she acknowledged. "I have no intention of giving up my post without a fight."

The defiant words brought back the familiar - and pleasantly distracting - anger. He wouldn't - couldn't think about why he'd corrected her in such a way. Or why she might be so desperate as to run away to a keep in the desert. He allowed the anger to fill him, motivating him to action. He turned and paced away from her before stalking back and jamming a finger in her face.

"No! You cannot stay! It's too dangerous here. Don't you care about your children? About what a danger this place might be to them?"

"Don't you _dare_ bring my children into this again!" she bit back in a harsh tone. "I am doing what's best for them. If you fail to stop this demon army, then what is the difference between dying quickly now and waiting in terror to die at their hands later?"

"Dammit, _listen_ to me!" he shouted, unwilling to hear the logic.

"I've _been_ listening to you!" she shouted back. "You just haven't said anything worth hearing, yet!"

He took a step back and watched her in astonishment, though he shouldn't have been surprised. A subtle, rosy hue spread across her cheeks, and her breath came in giant heaves as she clenched her fists to her sides. Finally, she turned her back on him and raised her fisted hands to rest on her hips. When she turned around again, her face and voice had turned to stone.

"I will make you a deal, Captain. You will leave me alone for a week - allow me to work and serve in the capacity for which I've been hired. During that time, you may write to the advisors and request I be reassigned. If you find me a post elsewhere that serves my needs, I will go there."

Rylen didn't want to agree. He wanted her gone _now_. But a sudden vision of excited soldiers lined up for a taste of home gave him pause. He ground the words between his teeth, hating them on his tongue even as he spoke, hating how they tasted of defeat.

"And what are your _needs_ so that I can be sure to provide for them?"

"Marcel knows. You may rely on him."

 _Marcel knows._ Marcel knew her secrets. The other man had lulled Rylen into a false sense of security with his offer of help in Val Royeaux... and then handed him _this_. Another betrayal. Suddenly, he wondered if the advisors knew about the children. Or had that information been kept from them, too?

Rylen and Trice stared at each other, testing boundaries, narrowed gazes clashing in a battle of wills. One week. One week would be enough time to reveal Marcel's deception to the advisors and receive a reply via raven. Surely they'd agree this was no place for children. Or _her_. One week to hopefully get her out of his hair once and for all. And he had things he could do outside the keep to stay busy.

 _To stay away from her_.

Finally, he gave a short nod of agreement. The brief show of elation at her small victory rankled, but she quickly hid the expression behind her stone facade. Instead of saying anything further - he didn't think he could do it without shouting at her anyway - he turned on his heel and left her to her kitchen.

 

**

 

He hadn't seen her in one week, hadn't felt the anger or irritation, had easily maintained his typical, if sarcastic, calm. But he'd still been frustrated.

After deciding to address his letter to the Inquisition's spymaster - Cullen had an assault to plan and, at this point, Rylen didn't trust his message would even reach Lady Montilyet - Rylen had left with a contingent of soldiers to destroy the new Venatori camps that had popped up in the weeks since they'd last scoured the area. Bored to tears between bloody battles on the stretching sands of the Approach, even his own subconscious had betrayed him by constantly bringing up visions of her at inopportune moments.

"I'd be better off trusting a Tantervale templar not to piss in my ale than trusting my own traitorous thoughts," he muttered under his breath as he and his troops filed into the keep on the afternoon of their seventh day away.

As he dismounted, a strange anticipation bubbled up inside him. Nerves for what Sister Leliana's reply might say, no doubt. He debated cleaning up before heading to his office, but as the heat radiated off the sand beneath him and brought on a fresh wave of perspiration, he thought better of it. Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through sweat-slicked hair. Disgusting didn't begin to describe how he felt in that moment. Unless he'd been sent to track an apostate, Rylen had gotten used to being in a clean Circle with clean people. He ruefully admitted to himself that he'd been rather spoiled by life in the Circle.

Handing his pack to a runner, he rattled off a few orders to Lieutenant Kirel. Then, he made for the rookery in the tower above the gates to retrieve his messages from Mallory, the agent Sister Leliana had assigned to assist him in ensuring the safety of the keep. Although they'd gotten off to a rough start, Rylen had come to appreciate the quiet man's methods. They made a good team.

"Welcome back, Captain," Mallory greeted when Rylen stepped from the blistering sun into the slightly cooler shade of the tower.

"You and Lieutenant Kirel kept things ship-shape while we were away, I assume?"

"Of course, Captain. How went your mission?"

"Other than finding Venatori right under our noses on the leeward side of the keep, well enough. I wouldn't insult your considerable skill by suggesting you didn't know of it."

"We knew," Mallory affirmed. "We'd been using them to gather intelligence, but they'd served their purpose by the time you found them."

"Well, thank the Maker for that. I'd have hated to ruin things with my unorthodox method of killing my enemies instead of letting them run wild in the desert. Then again, I suppose a Venatori ambush would be just the thing to break of the monotony of marching to Adamant, eh?"

Mallory snorted good-naturedly at Rylen's comment. "There are more ways to defeat an enemy than hack and slash, Captain."

"Well I know it," Rylen agreed, finally turning serious. "I noticed the lower path to the well had caved in. Might that've been your doing?"

"Yes. For security. Now that we've cleaned up the well, no need to advertise a way in. I recommend increasing patrols, too. The Venatori seem to be multiplying like rabbits in spring."

"Aye, I've already given Kirel orders to double patrols. You'll keep me posted on what the 'Vints are up to?"

"As always," Mallory assured. He turned to pick up a pile of reports and a ring with a key and handed both to Rylen. "Here's your correspondence. And I believe they've finished enclosing your office, so for the love of the Maker, please remember to lock your door. The point of walls and a door is to keep people out of Inquisition secrets."

Rylen accepted the items with one hand while placing the other hand over his armored chest. "Your lack of faith wounds me, Mallory."

Mallory responded with a wave of dismissal, and Rylen left the tower for his office on the upper level. When he reached the corner of his former alcove, he ran his hand along the wide expanse of newly set stone. A thick oak door with iron hinges fit tight to the opening, so he inserted the key Mallory had given him, opened the door and surveyed his old yet new space.

The wall and new roof jutting into the open upper level effectively doubled the amount of space at his disposal. The windows in the corner still let in plenty of light, and a desk twice as large as his previous one had been placed in the space facing the door. An armor stand and a weapon rack for his personal effects lined the wall to his left, and two wooden chairs with canvas seats sat against the wall to his right.

Setting the correspondence on his desk, he hung his helmet on the armor stand and pulled off his outer armor as well. The cross breeze between the door and window flowed over his sweat-dampened tunic and cooled his heated skin, and he gratefully moved his chair into the path of the air flow before picking up the pile of papers once more.

He didn't even attempt to deny his purpose as he hurriedly shuffled through the papers. Finding the note among the previous day's correspondence, he dropped everything else and tore open the letter. He held his breath, at once hoping for and dreading the spymaster's response.

_Captain Rylen,_

_You are to be commended on your superior sleuthing skills. I have warned Mallory that you are angling for his job. However, you needn't be concerned about her secrets. I am aware of her background. The presence of children is unfortunate, but she is not a threat at this point. The danger with her lies in detection by outside forces - which is why she will remain in the place she is least likely to be found while under Inquisition protection. I suggest enjoying the fruits of her talents... and coming to terms with the children._

_My sympathies, L_

Rylen read through the message twice before he could properly process it. Even then, the emotions swirling in his gut left him unsure of himself.

The advisors had spoken. She would remain. Here. With him.

"Well... fuck."


	11. Cat and mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 occurs on the same day as the beginning of Chapter 51 of Part 1

"Mama, I'm boooored."

At her son's declaration - a nasally thing bordering on a whine - Trice looked over in time to see Clara chime in with an equally nasal and drawn out, "Meeeee, toooooo."

Trice moved away from the kitchen table, leaving her staff to follow through with her instructions for the midday meal, and stopped in front of her children, hands on her hips. They'd found seats against the wall on top of a row of apple crates and had started the morning taking turns playing a children's game on the single, precious piece of paper between them.

The whining had begun only three days into their indeterminate stay in the keep, and now, a week later, Trice struggled to maintain a shred of her dwindling patience. The few books she'd brought had kept them entertained for a time, but dusty tomes could only draw a child's attention for so long. And chores in the kitchen only took up so much time.

She had to give Jacques credit, though. He'd done much to keep Clara occupied and out of trouble during the long hours Trice had worked to get the kitchen up and running. After more than a week with her inexperienced staff, Trice knew they would need at least another month of training before she could reduce her hours to a normal schedule.

"Auntie Nellie's presents should be arriving soon," Trice said, wincing internally at the shrill note in her voice. "I need you to have patience until then."

They both groaned in unison, and then Jacques turned pleading eyes his mother. "Can't we go exploring? We promise not to get into any trouble."

"Yeah, we promise!" Clara added excitedly.

She shouldn't allow them out of her sight, but guilt ate away at her better judgment. Guilt for uprooting them from a comfortable life. Guilt for working so much and yet not providing for them better. Guilt for bringing them here at all. In truth, she'd waivered precariously during her last... discussion with the captain. But fear pushed her to cling to this beautifully and completely secure place, even if war threatened on the horizon.

And so, with another long look at them both, she caved.

"You will stay on this level only. No bothering soldiers, interrupting training or touching anything that doesn't belong to you. Especially things with sharp edges. Are we clear?"

They both nodded their heads excitedly as they scrambled off the crates. "Yes!"

"And be back for lunch!" she called after them.

As she turned back to her staff, her second-in-command Katlin sent her a wry grin. "Your children are so well behaved! I remember my brother and me at that age. We were terrors and no doubt of that. You're lucky."

Trice allowed a little smile. Katlin was a bit rough around the edges, but her pretty face, thick blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes always took the edge off what would have been abrasive coming from anyone else.

"Thank you. They can be trying at times, but..." She looked out the door her children had run through moments before. "I'd do anything for them. And what's worse... they know it."

Katlin's grin grew wider. "Awww. That's how it's supposed to be... I think. Not that I'd know. My mother'd whip me soon as kiss me. But then again, we _were_ terrors."

Trice managed another small smile, though the woman's flippant comments brought Trice's own idyllic childhood into sharp contrast. At the time, she'd never questioned and certainly never fully appreciated the love and care her parents had lavished on her for the first 15 years of her life. As wine merchants in Antiva City, her parents had lived extravagantly, always moving from one party to another, one business deal to the next. And yet, they'd never neglected her nor spoiled her, riding the fine line between too little and too much attention. They'd only begun to teach her the workings of their business when it had all fallen apart, and she'd been sent off to Val Royeaux. She fought off a shiver and rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms.

Misunderstanding the cause of Trice's unease, Katlin clucked her tongue at her. "Don't worry so much. Everyone here's looking out for those two. They won't get into too much trouble."

"What do you mean?" Trice asked, her brows furrowing in confusion.

"I mean that your young ones are safe enough. Everyone remembers the soldier rations we lived on those first few months out here. Believe you me, they won't risk anything happening that might cause you to leave."

Trice let out a huff of surprise and amusement. "I had no idea."

"Well, now you can stop fretting," Katlin said and then paused before adding, "You must've been a right proper chef there in Val Royeaux, eh?"

Sudden suspicion pricked coldly at Trice's neck. She reached back to smooth a rough hand over the fine hairs standing on end.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, they're obviously used to helping out a bit around the kitchen, but anyone can see your young ones haven't ever _earned_ their keep."

"I see," Trice replied stiffly, Katlin's words putting her on the defensive.

"Oh, I don't mean no offense by it, ma'am!" Katlin assured, as if suddenly comprehending the harshness of her words. "I just mean it's nice to see a woman supporting her family so well. They've got a bit more learning than what's normal, too, I think. That Jacques is mighty clever."

Already on edge from Katlin's previous comment, Trice fought back the urge to tell her to mind her own business. Trice reminded herself that it was natural for people to be curious about her, to want to get to know her. And despite the woman's unrefined manners, Trice did like Katlin.

"Thank you. He's always been a fast learner and both children love to read. I suppose I _have_ been able to offer them a rather undemanding childhood. It's no burden to provide books for children who love to learn. Val Royeaux had an excellent library, as well."

Katlin nodded and seemed to mull over that tidbit for a moment. In the meantime, Trice moved along the row and checked in with each station to judge their progress. When she returned to Katlin, the woman wiped at her forehead with her sleeve and snuck a glance at Trice.

"What made you want to leave such a cushy place, then, anyway?"

Trice battled again with her suspicion and desire to shut down. A sudden memory from her first year in hiding flashed through her mind.

... ...

_"I don't want to lie, Marcel."_

_"Lie!" he exclaimed, seeming shocked by the very idea. "No, no. You are playing The Grand Game, my dear. You must stick to the truth as much as possible."_

_"But how..."_

_"Several truths placed conveniently in a row can paint a picture very different from reality," Marcel explained patiently with an irreverent twinkle in his blue eyes. "For example, you might ask me why I have maneuvered to attend to Madame d'Orvey during tonight's masquerade."_

_"But I know that already. It's because you planned the masquerade and want to boast about your skills so she'll hire you for her next event."_

_"Yes, of course, but if you_ asked _, I might tell you instead that it's because I cannot resist the fashion and glamour of such events and will take any opportunity to attend. That is also true, no?"_

_"No... well." Trice shook her head in confusion. "It is true, I suppose, but it's not the real reason."_

_"But it is a reason. And it is the truth. Do you see?"_

_"Deliberately misleading someone still seems like a lie to me," Trice muttered._

_Marcel patted her hand, a soft, sympathetic smile soothing her rankled sensibilities. "You'll have to learn to deal with it if you wish to keep Clara safe, my dear."_

_"I know," she admitted through a long sigh. "I know."_

... ...

"Why did I leave? I wanted to do my part to help Thedas, of course," Trice replied to Katlin. "The Inquisition assisted Orlais and brought our bloody civil war to an end - a war that stole away the lives of many of our loved ones. Offering my talents seemed the least I could do."

She didn't need to fake the shimmer of tears in her eyes as she thought of Jerome. Six years had dimmed the pain substantially, but she still mourned the years stolen from them by the warmonger Gaspard and ached for the little girl who would never know the love of her father.

"That's quite noble of you, ma'am. I take it you lost your husband in the war, then?"

Letting the tears gather in her lashes, Trice bowed her head over the dough she'd started kneading and whispered, "I'd rather not speak of it, if you don't mind."

"Oh," Katlin replied in a hushed tone. "Of course. Sorry to bring up bad memories."

"Not bad. Simply... painful."

The comfortable sounds of a busy kitchen settled between them, and Trice counted the moments a distraught woman might reasonably need to pull herself together. Unsurprisingly, she found she needed most of the time to calm her very real emotions and gather her scattered thoughts. Although she'd become adept at subtle deception as part of the Game, she still felt slightly ill whenever she needed to mislead anyone, especially one of her staff... and even people as annoying as Captain Rylen gave her pause.

Another pang of guilt echoed through her chest. She'd done more than mislead the captain. She'd outright lied to him by telling him she wasn't running from anything. She hadn't needed to lie. She could have ignored the statement and given him an alternate reason. But instead, she'd denied his question. No, his _assertion_. Stated as if it were fact. As if he _knew_ her.

She pounded her fists into the dough, holding off the truth as long as possible, but the inevitable pushed its way from her subconscious to taunt her. His gaze caught everything. His shrewd mind clung to every detail. It wouldn't surprise her if he could recall in exact detail what they'd worn and every word they'd said to each other that day on the docks.

As safe as she felt in the keep, Captain Rylen was a danger to her in more ways than one. She needed to keep him at an arm's length. Maybe it was a blessing that they'd already gotten off to a poor start. She'd only seen him in passing during the last few days and had assumed his lack of communication meant he hadn't received a response to his letter. Now, she wondered if he was avoiding her because he didn't like the reply.

Well, she certainly wasn't going to seek him out. She'd continue to do her job, and if he wanted to tell her to leave... well, he knew where to find her.

She and her staff worked steadily through the remainder of the morning. The staff chattered and laughed with one another, but Trice had yet to fully adapt to the noisy atmosphere. Her staff in Val Royeaux would speak to one another while working, of course, but the inherent Orlesian respect for fine food precluded joviality in the kitchen, lending itself instead to a quiet hum of activity. Perhaps one day her current mishmash of unskilled and unrefined workers would adopt a more serene attitude, but she doubted it. It chafed slightly to have to adjust her expectations to accommodate them, but she'd rather keep them happy than try to feed nearly 200 soldiers on her own.

The number of soldiers seemed to increase by the day as units arrived from Skyhold and others were called back from apparently overstaffed encampments out in the desert. Muriel had politely suggested that Trice triple last week's food requisition in anticipation of the soldiers arriving for the coming battle.

Whispers of what scouts had witnessed at the fortress only a few days ago still echoed through the staff, and Trice secretly wondered yet again if she had done the right thing by demanding to stay. Orlais had been at war with itself the entire time she'd lived there, but a civil war being fought out through the Game in noble halls or hundreds of miles away on the plains of Orlais did not compare to the threat of war on your doorstep.

At the first sight of sweat-soaked soldiers peeking into the kitchen, Trice called out orders to arrange the meal. Each soldier had their own mess kit, so the staff merely kept the food coming. For the next hour, soldiers straggled into the kitchen after a long morning of training with their lieutenants. Trice smiled fondly as familiar mops of black hair and shining brown eyes brought up the end of the line.

"Ah, here you two are!" Katlin exclaimed. "We've held back plates for you, but you nearly missed out. Those soldiers would eat spiders if your mum cooked 'em, I've no doubt."

Jacques and Clara scurried behind the long kitchen table, grabbed up the plates Katlin held out to them and pushed out hurried thanks before diving in. The children also bore evidence of sweat and dirt, and Trice looked at them suspiciously. She'd told them to stay on this level...

"Pardon me, Trice, you wouldn't happen to have anything left, would you?" Lieutenant Kirel's voice carried into the kitchen just before the man himself arrived in the doorway. He wore a repentant expression as he explained, "I was assisting the Captain in cleaning up this morning's temporary practice field."

Trice smiled warmly at the serious young man. She'd gotten to know him during their journey to the Keep, and he'd been cordial with her ever since. Thankfully, the soldiers had seemed to follow his example instead of their captain's.

"Of course!" she assured him.

She took his plate and filled it, all the while trying to ignore the implication of the lieutenant's words. She didn't care. And yet her lips and brain seemed to be at odds as she felt the words spilling from her with an obviously forced nonchalance.

"You were with the Captain? Will he be here shortly for another plate, then?"

Kirel blinked once as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "I... I don't believe so. He mentioned something about grabbing some rations from Muriel and heading to his office."

Trice's jaw clamped together in a vicious click. Rations! When she had worked so hard to provide nutritious and proper meals for everyone? Of all the insufferable things he'd done, this might be the deepest cut. She thought back to the meals of the past few days and realized she couldn't recall seeing him in the kitchen once since he'd gotten back. Avoiding her was one thing, but avoiding her _food_? Outrageous!

And so, more out of spite than anything else, Trice grabbed another plate from the back, piled it high with the last of the midday offering of ham, roasted root vegetables and fresh bread and thrust both plates toward the lieutenant.

"Would you be so kind as to take this extra plate to the Captain?" she asked sweetly. "I'd be devastated if he wasted away on rations simply from being so dedicated to our safety and the welfare of Thedas."

Kirel raised his brows, his mouth falling open in mild surprise. He recovered quickly, however, and smiled at Trice.

"I'd be happy to."

"You... um... might want to avoid telling him who it came from," she warned.

The knowing look on the lieutenant's face told Trice everything she needed to know about the gossip in the barracks about herself and the Captain.

"I'll just take credit for this idea then?" Kirel suggested.

"What a considerate officer you are, Kirel," she replied with a wink and a smile, and he chuckled under his breath as he walked away with the plates.

For a long moment, Trice stared after the lieutenant, unseeing. A plan began to take shape in her mind, and the knowledge that it would annoy the captain only strengthened her determination. A slow smile crept onto her face.

She'd feed him whether he liked it or not.

 

___________________________

 

Rylen hung up his helmet, stripped out of his heavy armor and rolled his shoulders as he covered the short distance to flop down at his desk. He'd been ramping up training for several weeks now, pushing the troops longer and harder every day in an effort to prepare them for the coming battle. He'd already noticed an improvement in confidence and morale among the soldiers, but the training he'd have breezed through at 24 left his 34-year-old body sore and aching.

He should begin on the stack of reports from the scouts watching Adamant. He should write up the next week's orders for the encampments. He should assign soldiers to patrols. He should _work_.

Instead he sat in the relative darkness of his office and allowed the cross breeze cool his sweat-soaked skin. Even the heated air of early afternoon felt good as he sucked in a breath and let his muscles relax one by one. He liked being on the upper level where he could be in the midst of the soldiers, but some days he sorely regretted not commandeering a room in the cooler lower levels for his office.

Of course, being on the lower levels would mean being closer to _her_.

He groaned slightly at his own cowardice and slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging loosely from his shoulders. He should speak with her, tell her that she'd _won_ , but the very idea galled him. He'd been avoiding her for a full week now, taking the long way down to the courtyard rather than the back stairs that passed by the kitchen and eating rations instead of making an appearance in the kitchens. And through it all, somehow she came to mind _more_ , not less. He found himself watching for glimpses of her in the mornings when he knew she'd be walking the ramparts with her children, thinking about her confident, capable hands as he caught whiffs of whatever they were cooking for the next meal and, worst of all, dreaming of picking another fight with her just to see that wicked flash in her eyes as she stared him down.

He let out a breath of pent up frustration as he felt the familiar flare of arousal, and Rozellene's words from two weeks ago haunted him. What in the Maker's name _was_ wrong with him? How had she gotten under his skin so thoroughly? And more importantly, how could he fix it?

His stomach let out an unholy growl, and he grimaced. The hunger pains brought to mind another irritating and wholly baffling development - she'd begun sending him meals.

Three days ago, Lieutenant Kirel had appeared with a plate of food claiming he'd thought of it all on his own. Rylen might have believed it, too, if it weren't for the fact that, since then, the plates came regularly to his office almost as soon as he stepped in the door. In fact, he was surprised someone hadn't already-

"Captain?"

A pretty young kitchen maid stepped to the door with a plate in hand, and his shoulders slumped in resignation even as he reluctantly surrendered to wry amusement. "I'm here, lass."

"Oi, that's a good thing, for I've no wish to miss my afternoon rest," she responded in an irreverent tone. "You might think of the staff when you insist on missing all your meals."

Rylen blinked at her blatant call out before noticing her broad grin and the twinkle in her blue eyes as she strode into his shaded space. He graced her with a crooked smile in return as he looked over the plate piled high with another simple but flavorful meal.

"It is a crime, I grant you. I promise to be more considerate as I whip my soldiers into shape for a dangerous assault against one of the most powerful organizations in Thedas. And in return, all _you_ have to do is put that plate right here."

He pointed to the cleared space on his desk, his mouth already watering at the scent wafting toward him. The kitchen maid laughed and obligingly set the plate down in front of him. He grabbed up the bread, but looked up at the girl's retreating form instead of taking a bite.

"By the by, how do you manage it?"

The girl stopped at his voice, turning in the doorway to face him. "Beggin' your pardon, ser?"

He didn't buy it for a second. Her suddenly placid face revealed no indication of confusion.

"How do you keep track of me so well? Is my shadow reporting back to your mistress? Bloody unfaithful of him, if I do say so myself."

Amusement momentarily cracked her composure, and Rylen lifted his brows in invitation. To his frustration, she shrugged and shook her head.

"Luck?" she offered weakly.

Rylen replaced the bread on the plate and leaned back in his chair as he stared at the food. Even knowing he shouldn't, he desperately wanted to know why. Why did she go to the trouble? Why did she even _care_?

He pinned the girl with a serious gaze, and she shifted slightly. He stood and walked around to lean against the front of his desk, his gaze never leaving hers. Still, she stood silently.

"What is your name?" he finally asked.

"Katlin, ser."

"And what is your job?"

"I'm the assistant cook, ser. I run the kitchen when Madame Valera is out and about or working on meal planning."

"And how do you enjoy it?"

Katlin's brow furrowed in genuine confusion this time. "Ser?"

"I'm asking for your impression of our chef, Katlin."

The astonishment played over Kaltin's features in the form of widened eyes, raised brows, and slightly gaping mouth before she returned to her formerly calm countenance. Then, with a slight narrowing of her eyes and a haughty tone, she returned the favor.

"I work for Madame Valera, and I'll not say a word against her if that's what you're looking for. She's been criticized enough by those who should've been glad of her skills and willingness to serve. With as much as she's lost-" Katlin cut off abruptly, seeming to realize from his own surprised expression that she'd said more than she should, more than she'd meant to say. She pressed her lips into a thin line and continued in a softer tone, "My apologies, ser, for any affront. But if you want to know about her, mightn't you speak with her yourself?"

Rylen barked out a bitter laugh and crossed his arms. Perhaps it was the girl's candor. Or perhaps simply that the desert had gradually worn down his defenses. Regardless, he found himself responding in a far more honest manner than he would normally allow.

"Yes, because _that_ has always worked in the past. Your mistress and I get on about as well as oil and water."

"Yes, well, you could both benefit from learning to keep a civil tongue in your mouth," she retorted quickly before coloring and flashing him a sheepish grin. "Perhaps that's the pot calling the kettle black."

He should have reprimanded her for her familiar tone, but instead, his focus turned to the stone floor in front of him, thoughts scattering to the wind. As a result, he didn't register Katlin's final words until the girl had already disappeared from his doorway.

_I'll say this, though... I've found that with enough whisking, oil and water bind together as surely as the strongest steel in your armory._

Cheeky lass, that one.

 

**

 

The night breeze did nothing to quell the unease that had followed him since his conversation with Katlin, but thankfully, it did soothe the worst of the evening's lyrium tremors. He'd rinsed off the day's grime and stripped down to trousers and a tunic, and cool air now seeped through thin cotton, a balm to his mildly fevered skin.

As he climbed the ladder to the tower containing the astrarium, images and words from a past life crowded his thoughts. Rylen moved to the back of the tower and gazed out over the desert into the infinite darkness of a rare night with no moonlight. Gradually, the swirling memories solidified into a similar night long ago when his father had taught him all about constellations. He'd never been close to his father, but that singular moment of connection had begun a life-long interest in the night sky.

With the constant torchlight of the keep, the view wasn't as spectacular as he'd have liked, but anything would be an improvement over his limited view of the sky from the Starkhaven Circle. He leaned against the battlement, taking in the beauty of the night, and tried once again to purge his mind of his earlier conversation.

The girl, Katlin, had made her loyalties clear, and he knew he should be troubled by the lack of deference and respect she'd shown him. But thinking back to his final argument with Trice - in the kitchen, no less, where anyone could have overheard them - he had to admit he'd stepped over a line with her. Many lines. Big red ones, in fact, and all of them shouting "do not cross!"

And yet, he struggled to remain calm around her. Just being in her presence left him restless and itching for a fight. _Or perhaps itching for something else entirely,_ his subconscious whispered.

He grimaced into the darkness and viciously snarled at his internal voice to shut up. _That_ was _not_ happening.

But something had to give, and seeing as how he was the captain, it would have to be him. He had never been one to rule with authoritarianism. He led by example, and that philosophy had served him well - until recently. Snide remarks and sarcastic asides were one thing, but she incited him to levels of emotion he'd not thought possible. He needed to learn to keep his cool around her and earn back any respect he might have lost with his soldiers and staff. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would-

A scuffle on the ladder and a soft admonition to be careful had him tensing in his darkened corner. He straightened and moved forward, intending to excuse himself when the ladder became free, but at the appearance of a small body and glint of roguish black-brown hair, he blended back into the shadows instead. The boy, Jacques, stepped onto the stone and then turned to help...

"Dammit," Rylen hissed under his breath as the object of his thoughts appeared before him.

From the faint light of the torches below, he could see she wore a simple dress, modestly cut, and her hair pulled back in the typical bun at the back of her head. As she stood up from the ladder, the dim glow highlighted every dip, throwing her ample curves into sharp relief. He felt the familiar pull of awareness down to his toes, and the restless energy he always experienced in her presence pulsed through his limbs. He had to fold his arms across his chest to keep his hands still.

He bit back a growl at his treacherous body. He needed to excuse himself now, before he did something foolish, such as pick a fight with her in front of her son - again - to give an outlet to the thrumming energy.

"Well, where should we begin?"

Despite his intentions, every muscle froze at that velvet voice as the pair moved out of the ambient torchlight and toward the astrarium. He waited, knowing it would only be a matter of time before their eyes adjusted enough to see him in the darkness. However, whether through a blessing or a curse even Rylen couldn't say, Jacques chose to scamper toward the opposite side of the tower and lean into the crenel, his head thrown back and his eyes on the sky.

"The White Wolf!" he answered, excitement permeating his tone.

"Fenrir? Alright. I think..." Trice's voice fell into a hum for a moment before she pointed north. "That's north, so where would Fenrir be?"

"Uhhhhh..."

"Think about what you've learned. Where would it be?"

"It would start... over there and then go around that way."

Jacques pointed and the twirled his arm in the correct direction for the rotation of the stars, and Rylen couldn't help being impressed. The boy followed his own directions and then jumped with a little shout of glee.

"There! There, Mama. Do you see?"

Trice knelt down beside Jacques and followed the line of his arm to verify before giving him a little squeeze around the middle. "Very good, darling! What do we know about Fenrir?"

Jacques proceeded to spout a litany of facts about the history of the constellation - including the scholarly debate over whether the collection of stars had been elven in origin and merely subsumed by Tevinter. Rylen's brows rose further as he thought back to Rozellene's verbal report on the family the night before she left.

Jacques was 10 or perhaps 11 years old now. To know such things at his age meant he'd likely had a formal education. Or perhaps it was his mother who had been formally educated and now passed along the knowledge to her children? She certainly seemed to know exactly what the boy was talking about, prompting him when he faltered and filling in facts he'd missed.

What would cause a woman with enough money and status to receive a thorough education to take a cook's job with a military organization? Rylen almost forgot himself and grunted out loud as he answered his own question - _any number of things_.

"I miss Monsieur Julien," Jacques announced suddenly at the end of his recitation, his earlier excitement seemingly overpowered by memories of a previous time and place.

Rylen tensed and held his breath at the mention of something from their past - a piece of Trice's history she'd never willingly share with him. Was this man a friend? A lover? The thought caused a sharp pang of something like irritation, but he pushed the feeling away in favor of listening for Trice's answer.

The subdued voice that responded to Jacques' admission was nothing like the confident force of nature he'd come to expect here in the Approach. The tone sounded hollow, almost... broken - a sadder echo of that cold monotone from their encounter on the docks of Val Royeaux.

"I know, love. I'm so sorry. Next time will be better. We'll go someplace she'll never find us and have a normal life. I promise." Rylen made out a nod from the boy as Trice enveloped him in a quick hug and then said in a falsely bright tone, "Alright, how about Satinalis next?"

Looking for Satinalis meant they'd remain on the opposite side of the tower, and Rylen used the time to convince his stubborn feet they should move - specifically that they should move him toward the ladder and away from Trice. But his mind spun with unanswered questions. Who was Monsieur Julien? Why did the family have to leave Val Royeaux? Who was the "she" who might "find" them?

He didn't have answers, but one thing was certain: If Trice discovered him now, she would be furious that he'd overheard their conversation... and perhaps frightened enough by the implications to run away again. Strangely, the thought was enough to set his frozen extremities into motion. As mother and son found and discussed the second constellation, he carefully edged around the darkened perimeter of the tower.

"I don't remember any others, Mama. What else is there?"

"Well... I know Toth is somewhere. I wonder if you can see Eluvia or Solium from here? They're visible in southern Orlais, but-"

"You can, but not right now. They won't be visible until near dawn."

He internally cursed himself even as the words slipped out before he could catch them. She let out a small cry as she jumped up, whirled to face him, and moved her body in front of Jacques in an attempt to shield him from whatever person had snuck up on them unaware. The flood of conflicting emotions at her reaction left him momentarily speechless, but he gathered himself enough to thank the Maker that he'd ended up close enough to the ladder to make it look as if he'd just arrived.

"Begging your pardon," he said in a surprisingly steady voice. "I didn't realize anyone would be here tonight."

In an effort to put her at ease, Rylen relaxed his stance and leaned back against the nearest merlon even as his heart pumped double time through the jumble of nerves and restless energy churning inside him. She relaxed slightly in return, and moved to stand beside Jacques, her hand resting protectively on the boy's shoulder.

"Captain," she acknowledged stiffly. "You know about constellations?"

"I do," he affirmed. Then, desperate to have a buffer against the rising restlessness, he fixed his gaze on the dim outline of the boy and asked, "Would you like me to show you?"

The wait seemed infinite. He could almost see distrust radiating outward from the boy on vitriolic waves. Jacques' sense of wonder and desire for knowledge must have won out in the end, though, because he eventually cleared his throat and spoke in a firm tone.

"Yes. Thank you... ser."

Rylen pushed off the battlement and approached at a leisurely pace. Stopping a few feet away, he knelt down to be at eye-level with the boy and beckoned him over. After a slight hesitation, Jacques approached and sighted down the arm Rylen raised to slowly trace the outline of the next constellation.

"Toth is there. Do you see?"

The boy hummed, and though Rylen couldn't see much in the dark, he imagined thick brows furrowing in concentration. Jacques adjusted his stance, moving closer as Rylen continued to point to the individual stars. Finally, the boy gave a soft yelp of elation.

"Oh, yes! I see it there! That one is hard to find. Mama, do you see?"

From behind him - _close_ behind him - Trice murmured her assent as Rylen bit back a smile at Jacques' excitement. Her unexpected nearness amplified the jittery feeling flowing through Rylen's body, and he cleared his throat to ensure a steady voice.

"Do you know the story?" he asked Jacques.

"It's named for the dragon of fire... an Old God of Tevinter," Jacques intoned solemnly.

Rylen dropped his arm and looked over at Jacques. Even in the dark, he recognized the serious set of the boy's face and body, and Rylen couldn't help but compare the boy to himself at that age. Rylen had been a wild child, his older brothers and sister getting him into all sorts of trouble - and letting him take the blame, of course.

But overall, his parents had given him a stable, loving place to learn and grow. How long had it been since Jacques could simply be a child? Run and play without fear of someone or something coming for him? Rylen's chest clenched strangely at the sight of such dampened innocence and youth. He began speaking softly... and ended up saying far more than he intended.

"I was just about your age when my father taught me all about the constellations. We sat on our roof and gazed for hours, watching the stars rise and set in the night sky. Of course, the skies in Starkhaven are different than what's here in the Approach. But I filled in the gaps during my years in the Circle. For all they were labeled as prisons, the Circles had excellent libraries, including star charts. Have you ever seen a star chart, lad?"

Jacques deigned to give him a sidelong glance as he nodded. "Monsieur Julien had a lot of them." He hesitated for a moment, glancing again at Rylen with something like embarrassment. "I like to look at the charts and imagine visiting those places - imagine what might be out there."

Trice's quick intake of breath at the mention of Monsieur Julien had alerted Rylen that he was on dangerous ground. He momentarily debated the wisdom of asking questions, but concern for the too-serious boy standing beside him overshadowed his curiosity about their origins. This was an immediate problem he could solve, and his instincts, honed by years as Knight-Captain, took over.

The boy needed something to do - something physical to counterbalance all that thinking - and Rylen began sorting through a flurry of solutions. Without fail, every potential fix required some modicum of trust from the boy and his mother - trust he'd never engender if he alienated Trice yet again by digging for answers now. And he was already working from a deficit with Jacques - another reason to get control of himself around her. He settled for staying on topic.

"I'll bet you've never seen a night sky like this before, living in Val Royeaux with all that light, eh?"

That actually earned Rylen a small smile from the boy. "On our way here with the soldiers, we saw the whole sky for the first time. It's lovely."

Rylen nodded in agreement. "Nothing could have prepared me for that first moonless night in the Western Approach. I walked away from the encampment and climbed an outcropping just to take it all in."

"You went by yourself?" Jacques asked, incredulity and undeniable curiosity sparking in his tone as he turned to fully face Rylen. "That must've been dangerous."

"Yes. Very. But it's not so dangerous if you know how to handle yourself. Plenty of hunters go into the deserts alone." A dismayed noise from Trice compelled Rylen to add quickly, "It takes years of hard work and dedication to learn those kinds of skills, though. You should never attempt something like that without training. I could-"

"Yes, well... thank you Captain," Trice interjected quickly. "I think we should be heading off to bed now."

Annoyance flared at her interruption, but he ignored it. In the dark, he couldn't read her expressions, but he'd have sworn he heard a tremor in her tense voice. Rylen stood up and watched as Trice took hold of Jacques' shoulders and steered the boy toward the ladder. He should let them go, but that restlessness thrummed through his body, this time taking tentative shape as an urge to follow. In what had become the theme of the evening, words popped out before he'd even formulated coherent thought around them.

"I'll walk with you."

Trice froze in the process of gathering her skirts to find her footing on the ladder and jerked her head up to look at him. "Oh! There's no need..."

She trailed off as Rylen moved forward and offered her a hand. Staring at it as if it might turn into a serpent and bite her, she eventually, reluctantly slipped her fingers into his palm. His body clamored at the touch, but he directed his mind toward an excuse for accompanying her even as he did his best to stifle the awareness of the way his skin tingled at the skin-to-skin contact.

He did need to speak with her, he rationalized - to clear the air from their previous encounters. This offered a perfect opportunity to do just that.

"It's on the way to my quarters," he countered with a shrug. Lowering his voice, he added, "And I'd like to speak with you. Alone."

Trice stumbled a bit on the ladder. Still holding on to her hand, he quickly bent down to stabilize her by wrapping his other hand around her upper arm. Eyes wide with surprise, she flicked her gaze to his but looked away again almost immediately to focus on finding her footing. Not soon enough to stop the strange electric shock that exploded through him at the eye contact, however.

"Of course. Always _such_ a pleasure, Captain."

Rylen waited for the anger, the irritation to catch hold of him. It didn't come. Instead, he smothered a smile as breathlessness completely undermined her attempt at a haughty tone. No matter what kind of show she put on, he would bet his sister's first born that she felt this ill-advised attraction between them, too. Not that he should - or would - do anything about it. He had no place in his life for a relationship.

The thought registered on a deeper level, and he caught his breath as alarm ricocheted through him. Maker take him - a _relationship_?

Trice had regained her footing, and Rylen quickly let go of her, backing away to a safer distance. Flustered by his strange and uncharacteristic thoughts, he merely glanced at Jacques and roughly gestured toward the ladder.

"After you, lad."

Rylen followed, and when he'd joined them below, Jacques led the way through the tents crowding the upper level. Rylen silently fell in step beside Trice, although he carefully left a healthy distance between them. During a surreptitious look, he caught her giving him a sidelong glance as well. Once again, she turned away as soon as their eyes met, but the restless energy pulsed higher, his body itching for want of... something he absolutely refused to name.

He must have some kind of lyrium fever. It was the only explanation for why he couldn't seem to keep his body in check.

The silence between them lingered - awkward and yet not entirely unpleasant - until they reached the door to the Valeras' shared chamber. Trice reached out a hand to touch Jacques' shoulder.

"Go on and get ready for bed, darling. I must speak with the Captain for a moment."

Jacques glanced toward him, and Rylen was relieved to find that the former looks of open dislike seemed to have shifted into wary acceptance. The boy then turned back to his mother.

"I'll be inside if you need me."

Rylen wasn't sure whether to be impressed, amused or affronted by the implication in the boy's words. Probably chagrined would be the appropriate response. Trice's expression softened at the gesture, however, and she smoothed a hand through her son's hair.

"Be sure not to wake your sister when you go in."

Jacques opened the door quietly, and with a final warning look at Rylen, he closed the door softly. For a heartbeat, they both stood side-by-side, staring at the closed door. Rylen turned first and watched Trice do the same. Her soft expression disappeared, and in its place, she wore a sardonic smile.

"Do you always eavesdrop on your staff, Captain, or is my family just that interesting?"

Ignoring the twinge of guilt - and her acidic tone - he answered with a huff of wry amusement and a shake of his head, "So _now_ you're one of my staff?"

She raised an eyebrow at the non answer. His brief smile faded, and he glanced off to the side in equal parts relief and disappointment at the familiar surge of irritation flowing out of his building restlessness. He needed to conquer this, needed to find another way to release this pent up energy - a way that _didn't_ involve... that. Looking back to her, he attempted a careless shrug, though he couldn't entirely withhold the bite in his words.

"I didn't expect visitors while stargazing. In the last four months, I've had nary a one. One might say that _you_ invaded _my_ sanctuary." He paused a moment before sighing and taking a step toward her. She stood her ground, and her quiet snort of derision revealed her thoughts on his answer. Rylen's mocking smile made a tentative comeback. "Now answer me this in return. Do you always insult people who are about to apologize to you?"

He'd expected a rebuttal. A sharp word at least. To his surprise, her eyes widened slightly and then dropped to somewhere around his neck. Rylen took another step toward her, and this time she matched him with a stride backward.

"Don't," she whispered, her eyes flicking up to his before falling to the floor. "I don't need your apology."

Rylen frowned at her words, the frustration held at bay as he attempted to solve this puzzle. She didn't want his apology. Why not? He'd thought she would've crowed over him at his admission of wrong doing. He shook his head, bewildered and annoyed by her contrary behavior.

"I must give it nonetheless. It was wrong to raise my voice to you, to insult you as I did. It's not..." He paused, barely containing a growl of aggravation as her nearness muddled his thoughts. He had the sudden urge to reach out and smooth the furrow that had dug into the space between her brows. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and continued, "I don't usually behave like a demon-possessed bronto, but I was concerned for the safety of your children. And... and you."

Her lips parted slightly at his admission, her jaw going slack with apparent astonishment. He looked away from her face and stared at the wall behind her, determined to get it all out. Then, he'd go dump a cold bucket of water over his head to cool his anger and embarrassment.

"I remembered you," he admitted gruffly. "I remembered your... injury, but it didn't occur to me until later that you might be here because you had no other choice. By that time, we'd already established a... precedent of sorts, to antagonize each other. And by the grace of the Maker, you do have an unholy ability to try a man's patience."

"I thought this was an _apology_."

Her voice came out thin and reedy, but he detected the underlying irritation that prompted the words. Relieved at the more natural response, he suddenly felt his own irritation slip into genuine amusement. He laughed quietly and stepped toward her again. She stepped back - only to run into the wall behind her. A vaguely panicked look flitted over her face before she composed herself once more, and he felt an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness at that flicker of vulnerability.

"You needn't fear me, lass," he said roughly, his brogue thickening with emotion. "I've no wish te harm ye."

She didn't move, but neither did she look at him. And then, without warning, the restlessness inside him took shape as a powerful, undeniable desire to _touch_ her again. He desperately struggled against it - reminding himself of all the very good reasons he shouldn't - and curled his fists more deeply into his pockets.

"Very well," she acknowledged, breaking the silence with her husky tone. "Apology accepted. I take it that means you'll halt your ridiculous campaign to send me away?"

Despite the tumult within, he leisurely lifted the corner of his mouth into a resigned smirk. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. You've won, your highness. I've been ordered to keep you here with me for the foreseeable future."

She stiffened slightly at the mocking title. And then her eyes finally, _finally_ rose to meet his.

Another, even more powerful electric shock jolted through him the instant their eyes locked, and he sucked in a quiet breath as his resolve to keep his hands off her weakened. With less than an arm's length separating them, he could easily see the flecks of black in her deep brown irises. Her pupils were blown wide, and he drowned in the soft fire of those chestnut eyes. They urged him closer, invited him in, and he obliged by leaning forward slightly to press a hand on the wall beside her head. He left room for her to escape if she wished, but she stayed perfectly still, her eyes trained on him and her breathing slightly elevated. Then again, so was his, he noted absently.

A faint, rational voice in the far recesses of his brain screamed that he'd truly gone mad. He should not be doing this. And yet, in this moment, he couldn't think of anything he wanted more than a taste of feisty, irritating, gorgeous Trice Valera. After a moment of stillness, he began to take another step toward her, his head bending down...

The sound of the door opening jerked him back to reality. He straightened and took a healthy step back, grimacing as he belatedly realized how aroused he'd become. _Great. Now I need two buckets - one to pour over my head and the other to go straight down my pants._

"Mama?"

Instead of the boyish voice of disapproval he'd expected, Clara's small, sleepy voice echoed in the hallway. Trice quickly moved around Rylen to lift the girl into her arms. Clara blinked at the bright torchlight and then fixed her eyes on Rylen as he turned to face them.

"Hello, Cap'n,"  the little girl mumbled.

Rylen tilted his head at her. "Hello, Clara. I apologize if I woke you."

"Nope, you didn't. It was Jacques. He stubbed his toe in the dark and said a naughty word."

An irate voice wafted from the darkened room. "Did not!"

Rylen willed Trice to look at him. He couldn't explain why, but he desperately needed her to look at him.

"Madame Valera..."

She finally looked up, and he felt a wave of irrational disappointment as he saw nothing but challenge and defiance in her gaze. _You are an old fool, Rylen_.

"Good evening," he finished lamely.

"Good evening," she murmured in return as he started toward his quarters.

When he came up even with her, however, a tentative touch to his arm stopped him. He looked down at the hand gently resting on his bicep and then up to her face. The challenge had faded to wariness, but something he hadn't been expecting lingered in her gaze - a touch of warmth.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the apology and... for tonight with Jacques. For what it's worth, I'm sorry, too. Perhaps..." She stopped, glancing down at her daughter before looking to him with a strange mixture of reluctance and anticipation. "Perhaps we can try to be... friends?"

Caught entirely off guard by her genuine if somewhat reluctant proposal, his tongue tied itself around any words that attempted to leave his mouth. He merely nodded, holding Trice's gaze as long as he dared before glancing at the little girl in her arms. He then flashed Trice a weak smile and continued down the hallway, forcing himself not to look back. Finally, his straining ears picked up the soft click of her door closing in the otherwise quiet hallway.

He'd nearly reached his quarters before he realized he'd never asked her about sending him meals. Never asked her why she'd done it despite them being all but sworn enemies at the time. But he supposed if they were going to be friends now, he'd have other opportunities to ask.

 _Friends_. It should have made him happy that their hostility had supposedly come to an end. That he wouldn't have to worry about her scheming behind his back or goading him into shouting matches.

That she didn't seem interested in anything _beyond_ friendship.

Why, then, did he suddenly feel a bit like something had scooped out all his insides and thrown them over the battlements?


	12. Give Peace a Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Rylen called a truce, but will it hold?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12 occurs at the very end of Chapter 51 and during Chapter 52 of Part 1.

The first time Trice passed by Katlin to retrieve a forgotten item, her assistant paid no attention. The third time, Katlin narrowed her eyes and gave Trice a suspicious look. The fifth time, the young woman planted her fists on her curvy hips and shook her head in consternation.

"Ugh! You're flightier than a whore giving her first blow job this morning. What's wrong with you?"

Trice skidded to a halt in front of Katlin, her eyes wide. "Katlin!" she hissed, darting a glance at her children across the room. "Keep your metaphors child friendly, please! And besides, I'm not flighty. I... I simply didn't sleep well last night."

Katlin uttered a doubtful hum. "Just couldn't sleep? Or something _disturbed_ your sleep?"

Trice didn't answer immediately, her thoughts spinning back to the events that had kept her awake half the night and continued to distract her this morning. She had willed her brain to focus a thousand times during the hour they'd been hard at work preparing breakfast for the soldiers, but her thoughts betrayed her over and again, drifting to reminders of his soft words and visions of his intense eyes as he leaned toward her...

She grunted softly in frustration at her lack of discipline, and Katlin took it as confirmation.

"Out with it, then. What's got your smalls in a bind?"

Trice sighed and closed her eyes, praying her children remained engrossed in the task of cracking eggs into bowls for the cooks. Part of her didn't want to speak of it. She'd been so closed off from people for so long, she couldn't properly comprehend having a confidant.

And yet, another part of her desperately wanted someone to talk to. Katlin might have been outspoken, but in the short time Trice had known the feisty blond, she had also seen how much Katlin cared for her friends. Trice hadn't realized how big a hole Nellie and Marcel had left in her heart until she'd been confronted with the possibility of filling it - at least partially.

Trice further rationalized that everyone already knew about her contentious relationship with the captain. And besides, what had happened last night had nothing to do with her past... Or at least not much of anything. She was safe here. And Maker knew she could benefit from an outside perspective. Why not make a friend?

"I spoke with the captain last night," she finally admitted.

Instant understanding flashed in Katlin's eyes. "Ahhh. You _spoke_."

With any other person in any other situation, Trice might have been worried that the words carried some sort of misguided sexual innuendo. But no one here had any reason to suspect that she harbored an alarming and contradictory affinity for the rough captain - an affinity she would have sworn was unrequited... until the final moments of their time together last night. The memory of the way he'd leaned into her and lowered his head, so close she could have easily reached up to feel his evening scruff, still sent shivers of pleasure down her spine.

And instead of pushing him away as she should have, as she would have with anyone else, she'd allowed his closeness. Maker, if Clara hadn't interrupted them, Trice might have let him kiss her.

No, scratch that. She _would_ have let him kiss her.

She'd even suggested they try to be friends in some desperate attempt to keep him close, her needy body overtaking all semblance of good sense. _Friends._ She could barely contain the groan of self-loathing at her weak-willed behavior as she finally responded to Katlin.

"Actually, we did talk," she admitted. "In normal, almost congenial tones."

"What, not a sarcastic word between you?"

Trice smiled at the disbelief and astonishment in Katlin's voice. "I didn't say _that_."

Katlin shook her head, her expression rather bemused. "Well, how do you like that? Maybe my bit of ribbing did some good after all."

"What ribbing?" Trice asked with a frown.

She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. Katlin's next words confirmed it.

"I took him his midday meal yesterday, and he asked me about you - what I thought of you."

"He did? I mean... what did you say?" Trice asked, trying to keep her voice even.

"Told him I'd not a word to say against you _and_ that you haven't received the respect you deserve from _certain_ people in this keep."

Trice's eyes widened to saucers. "Oh, Katlin! You didn't!"

At her louder-than-intended exclamation, half the kitchen stopped to stare at them, and Trice felt her face go hot with embarrassment. Jacques and Clara turned toward her expectantly, but she set them back to work with a little flutter of her hand and a muttered excuse. Turning back to Katlin, Trice struggled to keep her voice low.

"You didn't need to do that. I don't want you or anyone else to suffer because the captain doesn't happen to like me."

 _Or at least I_ thought _he didn't._

Katlin waved off Trice's concerns with a flour-coated hand. "He took it tolerable well. Even seemed sort of sad that you two were on the outs. I just gave him something to think about is all. And it seems to have worked, at least for now. But enough about that. What did you two talk about last night?"

Trice grabbed a rolling pin and set upon a batch of quiche dough on the table, focusing her gaze on the task as she spoke. "He... we... Jacques and I were up on the tower with the astrarium looking for constellations. The captain found us there - apparently he likes to stargaze as well. He's surprisingly knowledgeable about it. He helped Jacques find one of the constellations I couldn't remember.

"And all that time, no shouting?" Katlin asked.

Trice allowed a small smile. "No shouting. I couldn't think of anything to say, honestly. Who would have guessed he'd be so..."

"Intelligent?" Katlin supplied in a faux helpful tone.

Trice rolled her eyes and then gave the sassy woman a sidelong glance. "I'm not trying to imply that he's unintelligent. I just... didn't expect him to be interested in something so academic when he's clearly been a warrior for most of his life."

Unphased by Trice's look, Katlin's mocking tone remained in full force. "Ah, yes. A surprisingly deep and sensitive soul, he is. Buries it deep underneath all that wickedly sexy muscle and sinew. Maker as my witness, I've seen him hide poetry books inside those battle strategy tomes the Commander sends him."

Trice grimaced and sighed. "Alright, alright! Point made. I suppose I am a bit of a snob. In all fairness, though, you have to admit that stargazing isn't a typical pursuit for a soldier."

Katlin threw back her head and laughed. "Spoken like a true Orlesian! 'I'm a snob, but my snobbishness is justified.'"

Trice gave Katlin a pointedly dirty look, and Katlin winked at Trice in response. Trice cursed internally as her lips trembled with the effort of holding back a smile. Finally she threw her hands in the air and laughed.

"You win! I'm a snob, full stop." She sighed and then muttered, "Mother would roll in her grave if she heard you call me _Orlesian_."

"Oh, now... a true snob would never admit it. To ease your mother's afterlife sensibilities, I'll admit you're only a snob by association. We'll ween it outta you, make no mistake." Katlin picked up her own rolling pin and started on another hunk of dough. "Now, what happened after that, because I have to say, none of that sounds like it's worth losing sleep over."

Trice bit her lip and focused on rolling the wooden pin over the dough. For some reason, it was easier to talk to the hunk of flour and butter than to look Katlin in the eye.

"He... walked with us to our room because he wanted to speak with me. I sent Jacques into the room, and then Captain Rylen... he _apologized_. For everything. Told me he only lost it because of his concern for our safety. I'm not sure that's the entire story, but I can't doubt his sincerity."

"And how do you feel about... all that?" Katlin asked quietly.

"I don't know," Trice admitted. "I'm not sure it would have made any difference except to eliminate the need for raised voices during our future interactions, except..."

Katlin leaned in, clearly intrigued. "Yes?"

"Except that I then suggested we should try to be... friends."

Katlin's eagerness morphed into a grin. "Did you now?"

"Yes... I'm not sure why. It just... seemed like the thing to do?"

"So now you've got to try to be friendly?"

Trice scowled and, based on Katlin's teasing, decided it would be best to skip over the part where he'd almost kissed her as well as the part where he'd told her he'd been ordered to keep her _with him_... all while wearing that infuriatingly sexy smirk of his. The one that contorted his inked chin and drew attention to his sinfully full lips.

The words haunted her. Had he been repeating them verbatim from the Skyhold correspondence? Or were they _his_ words - ones he'd chosen to convey the intent of the message? And if they were _his_ words, what did they mean? She sighed at the repetition of the very thoughts that had kept her awake late into the night and focused on Katlin once more.

"You make it sound like you don't think I'm capable of it."

"Oh, I think you're capable," she allowed, "but you've gotta want it. And from your tone, it sounds like you're rethinking your offer of friendship. Or at least regretting it."

Surprised Katlin could read her so well, Trice swallowed hard. "I suppose I do somewhat regret that I didn't leave it at mutual apologies, but... it's not what you think."

Katlin shrugged. "I doesn't matter much what I think. Any reason at all doesn't bode well for the tentative peace. Although, I have to say, I'll be glad to get the old captain back. Since you arrived, his moods-"

Katlin's mouth snapped shut, and her face went suddenly blank as her eyes caught and held on something in front of her. Trice turned to see what had caught Katlin's attention and froze in astonishment.

As if their conversation had summoned him, the captain hovered in the doorway of the kitchen. His eyes caught Trice's, his gaze just as intense this morning as it had been the night before. The entire kitchen staff paused, every eye carefully looking first at him, then back to Trice, and then back to the captain.

One heartbeat, then three, then...

He tilted his head toward her in silent acknowledgement, and Trice, along with the rest of the staff, let out a quiet puff of relief. The truce would hold, at least for this morning.

"Well I'll be," Katlin breathed in an aside to Trice. "You weren't fibbing, were you?"

Trice had no time to reply. Not if she wanted to retain any level of professionalism in front of her staff. She willed her voice to be strong and confident as she addressed him.

"Captain. Good morning. Let me get you a plate."

She ripped her gaze away from him and hurried to the back of the kitchen where her staff had surged once more into motion. She heard Katlin speaking to the captain, but Trice ignored the murmur behind her in favor of pulling together a plate from the half-prepped breakfast, while her brain tried to catch up with this new reality.

He'd actually come for a meal. Of all the hours she'd spent obsessing over his every word, phrase and expression, looking for the lie, for any indication that he planned to conveniently forget their tentative truce, she hadn't anticipated this. Perhaps this was his small way of reaffirming that he wished to bridge the yawning chasm between them?

She returned a few moments later to find Katlin and the captain still talking, and Trice nearly stumbled as he suddenly grinned at whatever her assistant had said. She'd found his brooding attractive, but the way his face lit up with mirth had her catching her breath at the swift rush of warmth and desire that barreled through her. He had a face made for laughter she realized, his eyes crinkling and sparkling in merriment, his full mouth curving sensuously with the upturn of his lips. Of course, she hadn't had much opportunity to see his smile before. Even now, it wasn't directed at her, and a pang of regret echoed through a suddenly hollow chest.

"Here you are captain," she said with a forced smile as she approached him and thrust the plate into his hands.

He immediately focused his attention on her, the grin fading to a vague smile. "Thank you. I apologize for arriving so early, but I need to set up for training before the soldiers arrive."

"Don't you have soldiers so that you don't have to do that sort of thing?" Katlin asked with a cheeky grin.

The captain turned toward Katlin as he answered her question. "It would be a grand laugh to have them waste their time setting up drills instead of learning how to not die, wouldn't it? Sadly, it's my responsibility to prepare them for the coming battle, and old-fashioned man that I am, I take that responsibility seriously."

"That's good of you," Trice responded under her breath, more out of genuine feeling than anything else.

But quiet as she'd been, he heard her. Surprised eyes darted over to catch hers, and he gave a slow, careful bow, the mistrust of her atypically kind words written across his face.

"I'm glad you think so," he said in an equally low and hesitant tone.

Trice held in a grimace and fought off a flush of embarrassment at his scrutiny - and his closeness - as she moved around to Katlin's side of the table. The silence stretched, and she twisted her fingers into her apron.

"Well, we wouldn't wish to keep you..." Trice finally blurted with forced cheerfulness.

"Perhaps that's not _entirely_ true," Katlin qualified with a sly smile. "We _do_ wish we could keep you, but we know that duty calls."

Trice sucked in a surprised breath as she whipped her head around to stare at Katlin, but the captain merely laughed.

"My apologies for disappointing you. I'll have to make it up to you somehow."

His encouragement only seemed to embolden Katlin - a feat in and of itself. The blonde leaned forward, a flirtatious smile fluttering over her plump, bow-shaped lips.

"I can think of a few ways that we might both enjoy."

Trice felt her entire body flush with heat and closed her eyes, sending up a silent prayer to the Maker that a dragon might find its way to the kitchens to eat her whole, thereby saving her from this appalling awkwardness. As the mother of two children as well as being the belle of almost every ball in Val Royeaux by the age of 18, she'd had her fair share of sexual experiences, but she certainly had no desire to listen in on a flirtatious conversation, especially when she couldn't participate. The fact that it happened to be Captain Rylen had no bearing on the matter at all.

"How about I promise to visit again at midday and for supper?" he suggested. "That way, you won't have to bring my lazy, oafish ass a plate and miss your afternoon rest."

Trice opened her eyes to watch Katlin hang her head dramatically, her affected and ridiculous pout almost making Trice laugh in spite of her discomfort. Trice pressed fingers to her lips to fight back the smile and glanced over just in time to catch the captain looking over at her as well.

A strange warmth spread through Trice as they shared a mutually amused look. And in that split-second look, she had the overwhelming sensation of a thousand conversations, emotions, and feelings passing between them. He seemed to sense it, too, or at least he suddenly looked as stunned as she felt. They hastily broke eye contact just as Katlin's smile came back full force.

"My dear captain, your ass is many things, but oafish isn't one of them," Katlin quipped.

"Aaaand yes, well, thank you for stopping by, Captain," Trice cut in, her tone embarrassingly shrill. The fingers on her lips slid upward to briefly cover her eyes before she dropped her hand, squared her shoulders and added, "I'm afraid we have work to do. This breakfast isn't going to make itself." She looked pointedly to her left. "Isn't that right, Katlin?"

Katlin stuck her tongue out at Trice. "Yes, mother."

As usual, Trice wanted to be mad, but Katlin's broad grin took all the sting out of her words. And... well... Trice _was_ a mother after all.

"I'll be on my way, then," came the Captain's gruff reply.

He nodded to them both, barely looking at Trice before turning to head up the stairs. Trice watched him go, her insides churning with the aftermath of that shared look a moment ago. That along with the almost kiss of the night before left her feeling... unbalanced. She couldn't process it. Didn't have time right now, either. She had soldiers to feed.

Katlin, however, had no intention of letting it go.

"Oh! That was barrel of fun!" Katlin sighed. "I'm going to take advantage of this peace for as long as it lasts. Maybe I can get a little something out of it, too, if the rumors are to be believed."

Trice turned to Katlin and blinked, uncomprehending. "Rumors?"

"Word from my friends in Skyhold is he's pretty choosy, but he's worth the effort because he _makes_ the effort, if you know what I mean."

Trice fought back the blush, picked up her discarded rolling pin and responded nonchalantly, albeit quietly, "You mean he's good at pleasing women."

" _Exactly_ ," Katlin confirmed with gusto.

Great. Exactly what she _didn't_ need to know. Trice furrowed her brows as she worked at the dough and looked over at the young woman.

"You're a little young for him, don't you think? He must be in his mid-thirties at least."

Katlin, true to form, took no offense. "Oh, maybe a little. But a woman likes to get her jollies as much at 22 as she does at 32, I'd imagine, and the age of the man doesn't matter as long as his... _parts_ work. Speaking of which, how old are you?"

"Ah... yes," Trice grumbled, "I suppose I deserve that. I'm almost 30."

"So you'd consider _yourself_ a proper age for the captain, then, would you?"

The rolling pin slipped from Trice's grasp, and she cursed softly as her knuckle grazed over a rough spot on the wooden table. From the corner of her eye, she watched as Katlin's grin grew wider, and scowled to herself at the other woman's brazenness.

"The captain and I barely get along," she carefully reminded Katlin. "We're not exactly compatible."

"Hmmm... I don't think I'd say that, but..." Katlin peered over at Trice. "You're truly not interested?"

"Not in the slightest."

"So you won't mind if I go after him, then?"

Trice felt a strange, painful constriction in her chest, but pushed through it. "Not at all. He's all yours."

Katlin grinned to herself and began humming a little tune while Trice focused solely on her quiche dough. Fold. Roll out. Fold. Roll out. Set aside for the prep cook. Pick up another blob of dough. Repeat.

The familiar bitterness welled up inside her, but Trice forced herself to be grateful for Katlin's reminder. All Trice's concerns, all her worries, were for nothing because she was not free to stake any sort of claim on anyone. Last night could never lead to anything, which meant she had no reason to continue thinking about it... about him.

_If only it were that easy._

 

**

 

Over the next few days, their interactions became something of a routine. Captain Rylen would stop by a little early for a plate. Trice would retrieve something from the back of the kitchen. Katlin would flirt shamelessly. Trice's wariness lessened as she saw more of him and it became apparent that he planned to take her up on her offer of friendship. Or at least not go back on his apology. Once or twice, he even smiled faintly in her direction.

Trice avoided both him and Katlin as much as possible without being outright rude. When she did catch the tail end of their conversation, however, Trice couldn't help but notice he never really responded in kind to her flirtations. Nothing he said could be construed as overly sexual or even really that encouraging. Choosy indeed.

She had no doubt that Katlin would get her man eventually, though. So despite the pinching sensation in her chest with each laugh or murmured flirtation, she remained quiet even when working nearby. To her surprise and chagrin, Trice often caught the captain looking over at her... which meant he'd caught _her_ sneaking glances at _him_ , of course. Her subconscious had obviously decided to betray her with consistently wandering eyes.

The first break in the routine came during supper on the fourth day after their truce. It was the first day of Trice's new work schedule and her first effort to slightly reduce her hours. She and Katlin had arranged to alternate early mornings and late afternoons. Katlin's first early morning had been today, which meant she had the evening off. Trice had been so busy during the evening rush, she'd missed the fact that the captain had never appeared. When he arrived nearly a half hour after the last of the soldiers had left the kitchen, Trice looked at him, then at the nearly clean table, and then back to him again in dismay.

"Erm... hello, Captain," she stumbled.

"Good evening, Madame," he replied in a subdued tone.

"I'm afraid we haven't anything left. I didn't realize... I mean I didn't notice that you... we were so busy tonight..."

He half-heartedly waved off her attempt at an apology as he leaned rather heavily against the door frame. "I got buried in a veritable mountain of bureaucratic paperwork. I'm sure I can dig up something from the ration stores."

Furrowing her brows at the idea, she looked at him more closely, noticing things that had escaped her during her initial review - the slump of his shoulders, the flatness in his voice and eyes, the wildness of his thick brown hair... as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. With a nod toward her, he turned to go, and before she could talk herself out of it, she rounded the table and blocked his exit.

"No, please, wait." She reached out as if to put a hand on his chest to stop him, but he jolted to a stop before they were close enough to touch. "Let me make you something."

He paused, the wariness of his gaze edging out that alarmingly flat look. "I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. It'll only take a moment. It's the least I can do for forgetting to make up a plate for you. If Katlin had been here, I'm sure she would have remembered."

Even saying the words were a struggle, but Trice had determined she would help her friend in her quest to land herself a captain. And it was entirely likely Katlin _would_ have remembered to save food for the captain if she'd been there. Trice felt another surge of disappointment at herself for that failure.

The captain looked around the kitchen as if just noticing the other woman's absence, and Trice held back a wince at the obvious lack of interest on his face. Then again, his expression had yet to venture beyond a tired sort of resignation, regardless of the subject of his attention. He hummed in acknowledgement, but said nothing further. Concern plucked at her conscience, and she gestured to the crates nearby.

"Have a seat. This will only take a few minutes."

He gazed at her for another moment, clearly debating whether or not to refuse. His eyes, now swirling with a touch of animation, flicked from her to the busy kitchen and back before he finally nodded and settled himself heavily on the crates. Trice turned away and, while her staff continued to clean the kitchen around her, she pulled out a chunk of bread she'd made for the children and sliced off two large slabs. Pulling out a healthy portion of sliced bacon, she threw it in a pan on the stove, while dropping the hunks of bread on the edge of the stove top. Then, she separated an egg yolk, mixed it with some vinegar and a few of her favorite spices and began whipping the mixture.

"Andall, can you slice up a tomato and bring over a couple leaves of lettuce, please?"

"Of course, Madame!"

Trice smiled at her enthusiastic prep cook and then focused on slowly adding the oil into the egg mixture while whipping it vigorously. She didn't notice that the captain had moved until his voice came from just to her right and slightly behind her.

"What are you making?"

She gasped and turned to find him watching the bowl over her shoulder. Their eyes met briefly, and awareness sizzled through her. Her heart, already racing from being startled, picked up even more speed at his nearness. Silently, internally, she admitted defeat. No matter what lies she told herself about her own intentions, she couldn't stop her body's reaction to him. She dropped her gaze to the mixture, silently cursing her own weakness.

"It's a sauce called mayonnaise," she said into the bowl, "an emulsion of egg yolk and oil that is especially delicious on salads and sandwiches. Here, whisk this while I turn the bacon."

He looked a bit like a rabbit in the sights of a wolf, but he took the whisk nonetheless and began emulating her former movements. She bit back an approving smile - she doubted he'd appreciate it - and addressed the crackling meat in the pan. She turned the slices of bread over, noting the perfectly toasted side, and then returned to take over the whisk, careful to keep their hands from touching. He relinquished the whisk, but to her dismay, he stayed right beside her as she finished adding the rest of the oil.

"Where are Jacques and Clara?"

She glanced at him, surprised he would ask about her children but not Katlin. "Their gifts from Marcel and Nellie finally arrived today. The two of them have been in their room all afternoon going through the literal chest of toys and books. It's like Satinalia in Guardian. Nellie and Marcel justify it as extra birthday presents, but I think they just miss spoiling the children. I just hope..." Realizing she'd been babbling, she trailed off and studied him out of the corner of her eye before finishing lamely, "I hope this will keep them occupied for a while, anyway."

"They've done well. Better than I..." He cleared his throat. "But you already know of my initial doubts."

A wry little laugh bubbled up and over her lips before she could catch it. "I do indeed."

He joined her, his laughter quiet and low, as if he meant it just for her. Awareness of his proximity slid into every part of her consciousness, her skin tingling with the strength of her desire to be closer, to be touched. She kept her eyes on her emulsion, however. When he spoke again, his voice seemed impossibly lower and _closer_.

"I've been meaning to ask you about something."

"Oh?"

The single word held none of the nonchalance she'd hoped for. Instead, the breathy, questioning tone made it sound as if she might be encouraging him. And indeed, his hand appeared on the table beside the bowl as he leaned a hip on the edge of the table and peered into her face.

"Aye. I've been curious about it for days." He paused as if hoping for a reaction, but she only lifted her brows in a vaguely curious expression as she slid her gaze his direction. He tilted his head to the side and asked, "Why did you do it?"

Her curiosity mixed with confusion and slight irritation at his vague question. "Contrary to what my staff might believe about me, I'm afraid I haven't quite mastered the art of divination, Captain. You'll have to actually tell me what you're talking about if you'd like a proper response."

He chuckled softly. "Alright, then. My question is this: Why did you start sending me food last week? We were not on good terms then, but still... you made sure food found me for every meal."

"I made sure you ate a _decent_ meal. Rations are not meant to sustain a person indefinitely. How could you train your soldiers and adequately protect us if you were dying of hunger? And besides..." She stared into her bowl moodily as she overcame the ingrained urge to leave it at the half truth and grudgingly admitted, "I was offended that you wouldn't eat my food. So, I thought I'd annoy you by _making_ you."

His laughter rang out across the kitchen, and her eyes were drawn to his laughing face, appreciating once again the way his face lit up with the amusement. At the same time, however, heat seared her cheekbones as her staff turned toward them, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Looking down into her bowl, she realized the emulsion had finally thickened into a creamy sauce. Grateful for the distraction, she set it aside in time to receive the sliced tomatoes and lettuce from her bemused prep cook.

"Thank you, Andall."

The young man bowed and then eyed the captain before glancing to her work space. "We're just about done with the clean up. Should I stay to finish this?"

"Oh, no. I can manage this. Thank you, though."

"Of course, Madame. Have a good evening."

Trice wished him a good evening before turning to pull the bacon from the heat and retrieve the toast. When she turned back around to the table, she realized quite abruptly that she and the captain were alone. She faltered, her steps slowing on her way back to the table as she looked around at the clean kitchen. Swallowing hard, her eyes sought out the captain only to find him gazing at her with that same half smile he perpetually seemed to wear in her presence now.

The sound of sizzling bacon reminded her of her purpose, and she tucked her chin down, marched over to the table, and tried desperately to ignore his presence. Still leaning against the table, he now crossed his arms to watch her assemble the sandwich. It took her less than a minute to slather on a thick layer of mayonnaise and pile on the other ingredients. She salted the extra slices of tomato, arranged them around the sandwich and presented the plate to him with a little flourish.

"Your dinner."

He took the plate slowly, his fingers brushing over hers in the process and sending little shocks all through her. As she had actively tried to avoid touching him, she could only conclude that he'd done it on purpose. But _why_? Was he trying to throw her off? Get the upper hand?

"You didn't have to do this, but I appreciate it," he murmured. "I appreciate all of it. Even the parts that were meant to annoy me."

He didn't move away, so she backed up a step and avoided his gaze. "It's no trouble. After all, it's my job to keep you all fed."

Her hands, no longer busy with cooking something, found their way into her apron as she stood staring at the table for a few moments. Then, suddenly remembering herself, she began grabbing the remaining dirty dishes, using the task to put space between them.

Instead of eating the sandwich and leaving her to her work, however, the captain set down his plate and followed suit, brushing against her as he reached around to grab the bowl and whisk. The simmering awareness flared at the touch, as did the beginnings of irritation. Why did he have to follow her every move? Couldn't he see she needed space?

"Please, don't. I can handle this."

The words came out more harshly than she'd intended, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a frustrated huff.

"What if I want to help?"

She turned to face him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her own lack of self control. She took a deep breath and chose her words carefully.

"You have much better things to do than clean up a kitchen, Captain," she said in measured tones. "Please, eat your dinner and let me do my job."

Their eyes locked in a battle of wills. Finally, reluctantly, he set down the bowl and returned to his previous stance. The sound of crunching and chewing followed in the quiet space, and she turned away to hide a smile at the low hum of approval as he made quick work of the sandwich while she cleaned and put away the remaining dishes.

"Am I at least allowed to bring you my plate?"

She turned and gave him pained look, barely containing an eye roll to go along with it. "Of course."

Only at her affirmation did he push off the table and approach her with the plate. She noted with no small amount of satisfaction that the meal seemed to have lifted his spirits, at least for the moment. His eyes shone brightly in the lamp light, and his shoulders were squared and firm. Considering how incredibly handsome he looked with that disheveled hair and slightly mocking smirk, she considered the goosebumps that erupted across her chest, back and arms inevitable. He handed her the plate, and she quickly turned away to wash it, cursing her weakness yet again.

"Are you heading to your quarters, then?" he asked quietly.

She placed the plate in a drying rack and turned back from the sink to look at him warily. "I am, but I need to close up the kitchen first."

"How can I help?"

Trice looked around at the space, noting the staff had done an excellent job. "I just need to extinguish the lamps and lock the doors."

Before she'd finished speaking, the captain had started toward the far side of the room. Trice turned in the opposite direction to close and lock the door on that side of the room. They silently worked toward each other until he blew out the final light and plunged them into dusky shadows.

She remained still at first, allowing her eyes to adjust, but then she heard him moving. Not wanting to keep him waiting, she started for the door... and nearly shrieked aloud as she collided with a solid mass of muscle. He let out a quiet "oomph" and then a chuckle as he slipped a steadying arm around her waist. Her hands lifted to press away from his chest, but his arm held her firmly in place.

"Seems I'm developing a habit of running into you, lass."

Even with the rush of blood in her ears as her heart attempted to pound its way out of her chest, she recognized the low, sensuous tenor of his voice in her ear. Her senses on overload, her skin positively buzzing with the shimmer of electricity between them, she held her breath in a vain effort to slow time. She had to remove her hands from his broad, firm chest. She had to push away. But Maker, if she could just have a moment more of this delicious closeness... She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a man's arms. Instead of pushing away, she found herself curling fingers into his tunic as if to hold him in place.

Then his hand oh-so-softly caressed the dip of her lower back, and the sharp ache that shot straight to her core served as a cold dose of reality. She gasped and pushed away.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed and immediately winced at the edge of panic in her voice. "I couldn't see you in the dim light."

He let her go - was it her imagination that he released his hold reluctantly? She backed away a few steps as her eyes finally began to adjust to the thin light of dusk filtering through the windows along the back of the kitchen. Shadows played across his features, but she thought his face looked taut. She wondered dazedly if he were angry with her.

"After you, Captain," she managed to breathe out on an exhale. "I'll lock the door behind us."

The torches had yet to be lit in the passages, so she locked the door by feel. When she turned toward the back stairs, she found his shadowy form beside her, his elbow extend toward her.

"The stairs are dark. I'd feel better if you'd allow me to assist you."

She huffed out a breath of amusement. "So we can both break our legs when one of us falls?"

"Well, let it not be said that we didn't go down swinging, eh?"

"Swinging?"

His darkened form shrugged. "How else would you explain our falling down stairs together? It'd be a tragedy for people to find out we're actually getting along, don't you think?"

"Indeed," she responded, her lips curling into a fond smile. "Although the kitchen staff will have that news all around the keep and out to half the camps by morning if I correctly read their astonishment at the fact that you _laughed_ in my presence tonight."

"Damn. And here I was looking forward to making a fool of myself yet again in one of our knock-down, drag-out fights."

"Don't worry, Captain," she said with a teasing lilt, "I'm sure you can manage to look like a fool with or without me to assist you."

He grasped at his chest dramatically and huffed out a quick breath as if he'd been punched. "That tongue of yours should come with a warning label."

A sudden tension crackled in the air between them, and Trice quickly grabbed onto his armored elbow as much to get them moving as to distract herself from the shockingly illicit ideas of exactly what she could do to him with her tongue. They walked down the steps in concentrated silence as Trice struggled to banish the inappropriate thoughts.

She'd had her fair share of sexual experiences in the past. Granted, most had occurred before she'd become pregnant with Jacques or during her three-year relationship with Jerome, but in recent years, her entire existence had centered around keeping her family safe. Monsieur Julien had been the first man since Jerome who had even piqued her interest, but this powerful attraction to the Captain... it had a mind of its own.

As they approached the bottom of the stairs, the hall filled with light. Trice squinted against the unexpected brightness but still perceived the shape of the mage in charge of lighting the torches. He started at their appearance, and Trice had to force herself to gently remove her hand from the captain's elbow instead of snatching it away in embarrassment at being caught.

Caught doing what, she wasn't sure. But nonetheless, the embarrassment remained.

"Captain," the mage acknowledged with a salute. "Beg your pardon for being late with the lights. I was assisting a few soldiers in training against magic attacks."

The captain nodded in approval. "That's a better use of your talents than setting some sticks on fire, I would think."

"Yes, ser," the mage said with a hint of surprise coloring his tone. "Thank you, ser."

As the mage scuttled off to finish his duties, the door to Trice's room opened. Both Jacques and Clara, who must have heard voices in the hall, popped their heads into the hallway. When they saw her standing at the bottom of the stairs, they came tumbling out, loudly talking over one another.

"Mama!" Clara exclaimed as she threw herself around Trice's legs. "Uncle and Auntie sent us so many nice things!"

"Come see what they sent us!" Jacques said excitedly at the same time as he grabbed Trice's hand and dragged her toward the room.

Trice laughed and let him pull her into motion. She nearly fell flat on her face, however, when Jacques turned to the captain and, in an adorably formal tone, added, "You should come too, Captain. There's something you might want to see."

She jerked her head around in time to see the flash of astonishment cross his features. His eyes snapped to hers, and she only hesitated a moment before shrugging in ambivalent acceptance. Her insides were anything but ambivalent, however, especially considering her thoughts only moments ago. Jacques pulled at her again, dividing her attention, and she moved into the room.

The room was a disaster. They'd strewn books across the desk, the table, the bed and the floor. The parts of the floor not covered in books in various stages of being read held building blocks, a few soft animals, even more carved wooden animals, and several items she couldn't even name. The children both began speaking at once, and Trice held up her hands to quiet them both.

"I know you're both very excited. But I can't understand you when you talk over each other like that. Clara, you go first."

"Auntie Nellie sent me books and blocks and colored pencils and dolls and paper with pictures that I can color in with the pencils and a whole book of blank paper. Jacques says the blank paper is for us both."

"Auntie Nellie wrote that we should both draw her pictures," Jacques cut in.

"Mmmhmmm," Clara hummed in excited agreement, her head nodding vigorously. "And some new clothes and hats for you and me, Mama."

Trice moved forward to see that, despite the seeming sea of toys on the floor, the massive chest still held about half its contents. While Jacques and Clara continued to effuse about their gifts, Trice bent down to pick up the packet of clothes Clara had obviously pawed through - as evidenced by the pair of pants, two skirts and two shirts she currently wore. Beneath the remains of the packet, Trice noticed a layer of more books - thicker books - no doubt meant for her. Gratitude suffused her body with warmth, like a comforting sip of brandy on a cold night, and she smiled to herself and shook her head as she wondered yet again how she would ever repay her dear friends.

Digging deeper as the children chattered on, she idly read the spine of one of the books. Her eyes widened. Snatching up another, she let out a little whimper as she took in the familiar grain of the leather cover, the little nicks and wear patterns that marked it as _hers_. Her fist flew to her mouth, and she bit down hard on her knuckles to stifle a sob.

They were _her_ books. The ones she'd had to leave behind in Val Royeaux. And not replacements, either, but the actual books. Judging from a quick scan, the entirety of her small but precious collection of books lined the bottom of the chest.

Suddenly, everything she'd been holding in and holding back heaved upward and past all her defenses - all the fear and daring of their escape, the stress of her arrival and subsequent immersion in her demanding job, the sadness and resignation that she'd lost everything and everyone from her old life, and the sudden discovery that her friends had arranged to give her back a piece of herself in this generous and incredible act of kindness. She reached blindly for the nearby chair and sat heavily, clutching the book to her chest and desperately trying to hold back the tears stubbornly filling her eyes.

"Mama! Are you alright?"

Jacques came to her immediately, hugging her around the neck, but it was a larger, more solid presence at her side that had her flushing in humiliation even as a few tears pushed past her tight control. She'd forgotten for a moment that he was in the room.

He knelt beside her and gently laid a hand under her elbow. Her face burned hotter, and she squeezed her eyes shut. But the tears came nonetheless.

"Are they happy tears or sad ones?" the captain asked softly.

"Happy... and sad," she managed to choke out, her throat tight and her breath short as she worked to stifle the sobs. "These are... my books. Nellie and Marcel... they sent me all the books... I had to leave behind. Oh.... Maker. I'm so sorry. You needn't stay."

He said nothing for a moment, and she grappled for control, to keep herself from revealing any more secrets than she'd already let slip, to push the flood of emotion back behind the walls she'd put in place to contain it. Jacques clung to her, and by this time, Clara had crawled into her lap. Clara's voice echoed through the room as the worried child placed her small hands on Trice's wet cheeks.

"Mama! Please don't cry," she pleaded. Then, with a tremor of fear in her voice she asked, "You won't hurt yourself this time, will you, Mama?"

Trice's eyes flew open, and she gasped, dropping the book and catching Clara in her arms. "No! No, darling. It's alright. I'm alright."

She held Clara close with one arm, burying her flaming face in Clara's hair, while clinging to Jacques with her other arm. Panic rumbled underneath her sadness as her secrets continued slipping out, one by one - all of them falling to the floor to be analyzed by his shrewd and unrelenting gaze. Would he send her away if he knew how fragile her hold on reality could be? Would he consider her unfit to raise her children? Or would he simply reject her friendship and leave her to her own devices? Perhaps the latter should be her desired outcome, but in that moment of weakness, she could only feel despair at the thought.

She expected him to leave, but the hand at her elbow never faltered. Finally, she calmed herself enough to curb the tears, and she let go of Jacques in order to wipe her sleeve over her eyes. She stared into the room, unseeing, for a long moment before tentatively glancing in the captain's direction.

His eyes were turned downward, his head bowed slightly. His hair had fallen forward, curling slightly over his brow, and the hand not gently gripping her arm rested across his knee. He looked serene, as if he might be praying, and she envied him his composure. His head began to rise, and her eyes flicked forward again, avoiding his gaze.

"Jacques, my love," she said, her voice wavering with emotion, "I think you had something you wanted to show the Captain?"

"But, Mama, what about..."

Jacques trailed off, and after a heartbeat of silence, Captain Rylen spoke. "I think perhaps we should arrange for you to show me another time, Jacques my boy."

"Yeah," Jacques agreed. "Maybe tomorrow?" he asked, a vaguely hopeful note edging his voice.

"I'll look forward to it," he assured. Then the fingers on her elbow tightened, his brogue thickening slightly. "You'll be alright, lass?"

"Yes," she affirmed in a harsh whisper before clearing her throat and forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I'll be fine. The kindness... it took me by surprise. Though it shouldn't." Unable to meet his piercing but unreadable gaze any longer, she looked down as she finished. "Nellie and Marcel have always been far too good to me."

After a moment, his hand fell from her arm, and he stood up. When he spoke, his voice had returned to his normal, strong tones.

"Well, I've seen women cry over many a thing in my life, but you are the first I've seen sobbing over books," he teased lightly. "You're a singular woman, Trice Valera."

She gave a tremulous laugh, looking up at him with gratitude for his attempt at normalcy, and responded in self-deprecating tones, "Yes, well, you must've not met many women, then."

"Enough, madame," he responded with a smirk. "Enough to know an original when I see her."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" she wondered aloud, her eyes wandering away from him as she wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

"Does it matter? You don't owe anyone an explanation for who you are."

She whipped her gaze back to him, but he'd already turned away. He paused at the door, looking back at the three of them practically piled together on one chair. And then, with a soft smile and a nod, he left them to their evening.

When the door clicked shut behind him, she wondered dazedly what had just happened... and how she was ever going to be able to resist him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you would cry over your books being returned to you. 
> 
>  
> 
> _raises hand without compunction_


	13. (Wo)man your battlestations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn more about Rylen's past, his prejudices and his super weird and nonsensical boundaries between sex, romance and friendship.
> 
> Trice makes a decision about Jacques.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 occurs during Chapter 52 of Part 1.
> 
> **Trigger Warning notice**  
> This chapter contains mentions of self harm and cutting. Please be safe and take care of yourself if you need to.

Rylen woke to someone pounding at his door. Groggy from lack of sleep after spending half the night obsessing over the chilling words of a little girl, he threw back his blanket and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment just to get his bearings. The pounding started again, and he groaned.

"Keep a hold of your skirts! I'm coming."

Grabbing a shirt, he whipped it over his head as he crossed to the door and threw it open. In the hazy, predawn light, Rylen made out the features of his senior agent, Mallory, and sudden fear twisted his gut.

"What is it?"

"A scout just arrived and reported stumbling across a large contingent of Venatori in the north. They are marching directly toward us. She didn't get too close but managed to gather that they intend to wipe out as many of our encampments in the area as possible."

The hint of panic in Mallory's typically stoic tone told Rylen everything he needed to know about the Ventatori's chances of success.

"Shit."

"Just so, ser."

"Have you woken, Kirel?"

Mallory shook his head. "I came to you as soon as I finished with Gwin."

That briefly caught Rylen's attention. "Gwin was the scout?"

"Yes, she was among the scouts assigned to our next expected contingent of soldiers, sappers and agents from Skyhold. She was scouting ahead when she came upon the Venatori marching our way from the north. She headed directly here when she determined her group would not cross paths with the Venatori."

Rylen left the door open as he moved back inside and began strapping on his armor. Despite the tremor in his hands, his brain hyper focused on the issue at hand, quickly sorting through all the implications.

"Numbers?" he asked.

"She guessed around 35 mages and another 60 or so warriors, archers and assassins."

"Double shit," Rylen muttered as he tugged at his vambrace strap and then sighed. "Alright. First, send ravens to each of the camps and warn them to be on their guard. Then, wake Kirel. Tell him to organize a unit of at least 200 men, as many of them templars as possible. We need to fortify camp troop numbers before the Venatori get there. Then we'll set out to find these bastards before they can piss on all our well-laid plans."

"'We,' ser? Are you planning to lead the group, then?"

Rylen gritted his teeth at the question. He shouldn't be surprised or irritated by the question, but somehow, it managed to accomplish both at once.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because as tense as the situation is, you have at least eight other lieutenants here, any of whom could handle this threat."

Rylen had come to respect Mallory's opinion in the last several months they'd worked together, but in this, Rylen couldn't see the logic.

"Are any of those lieutenants templars?"

"No, ser. But neither are you, really."

Mallory might as well have stabbed Rylen in chest and twisted the knife. Rylen took a step back and just stared at the special agent. Mallory had the decency to look vaguely apologetic.

"I just mean that we're all working for the Inquisition now," he said with a shrug. "Regardless of your abilities, hostile Venatori are not simply a 'templar' problem."

"I know that," Rylen growled.

"Then why didn't you ask for as many of our mage warriors as possible as well?" he asked in an infuriatingly rational tone. "They often know how to counter their own even better than a templar. The majority of the attacking force aren’t even mages, and our mage warriors could give you a marked advantage. But you didn’t even think of them, did you?"

Dumbfounded, Rylen stared at the floor as the words sank in. Why hadn't he asked for them? Because even a fool of a templar knew you didn't take mages to fight mages. And then his inner voice, more annoying that Mallory by far, began to nag at him.

_Why then didn't the mages turn against you at Haven? Why do they continue to fight the Venatori instead of joining them? Why have none of them resorted to demons or even summoning? They are proving themselves every day, and yet you are still living in the past._

Rylen clenched his teeth and ground out, "Fine then. Have Kirel wake as many templars _and_ mage warriors as possible. But I'm still leading the unit. And get more of your agents out there! We need information."

Mallory nodded and headed out, seeming pleased to have won at least part of his point. Thankfully, the spy’s reserved personality precluded gloating. As raw as Rylen felt in that moment, he didn’t know if he could take any ribbing about his inability to get with the times.

As soon as Mallory left, Rylen mixed and took his dose of lyrium and stuffed a few needed items into his pack before heading to the front gate. So many thoughts swirled around him, he couldn't pin any of them down, but as the lyrium took effect, the thoughts became muted and less intense. The irritation and itching feeling under his skin diminished, and he breathed in the cool morning air in relief. However, the niggling feeling of unease, the recognition that perhaps he was sacrificing a part of himself for this calm, did not subside with the flow of lyrium through his system. He pushed it away, as usual.

This morning's activity had momentarily displaced his thoughts of a certain chef, but with a calmer mind, he sorted through the various tasks before him, compartmentalized them and did what he knew he did best - mental multitasking. Now that he had a whole unit of Ventatori to deal with, his brain cycled through battle strategies even as another part of him picked up on the previous night's theme of wondering if little Clara's words meant what he thought they might.

His gut churned all over again as the ghastly image of her mutilated neck rose up in his mind. Had she done such a horrific thing to _herself_? Surely not. A better explanation would be that Trice had attempted to minimize the incident by telling Clara she'd accidentally hurt herself.

And yet he recalled the occasional mage who would be caught taking a sharp object to their skin to create shallow scratches in hard to see places such as arms, thighs, or abdomens – places typically covered by mage robes. Most had been brought to him to be investigated as blood mages, but the despair in their eyes, the pleading in their voices as they tried to explain the need - for relief, for release, for some kind of feeling - had stayed his hand. He'd spoken with First Enchanter Raddick and arranged for them to be watched instead, but the behavior continued and eventually, the mage would be found dead in their quarters.

To his everlasting shame, even after half a dozen mage deaths over the years, it took an encounter with a discontented templar who harmed himself in the same way for Rylen to suspect that those mages might not have actually killed themselves. When the templar explained that he didn't feel the need to die, didn't want to die, but the pain relieved his loneliness, helped him deal with the idea of this being his life _forever_ , Rylen finally began looking into the deaths more closely.

He shuddered as he remembered the results of that investigation. In a couple of cases, the mages had, in fact, tragically taken their own lives, though other mages insisted those deaths had been accidental - cutting too deep or too near a vein.

However, chilling evidence from the other deaths led him to a couple of templars who had decided to take matters into their own hands. When caught, they'd easily confessed and justified their actions with the old stand-by, blood magic. Rylen had found their lack of remorse to be the most disgusting aspect of the investigation. They’d made it clear they were merely doing his job for him - doing what they believed Rylen should have done in the first place.

And in the end, Rylen's efforts made no difference at all. The templars were quietly "reprimanded" by Knight-Commander Karsten and then allowed to return to active duty. The mages became more withdrawn, more secretive, and even those who had once trusted him now gave him a wide berth. Rylen had actually contemplated writing to the Lord Seeker to send a Seeker of Truth, but then the Kirkwall Rebellions destroyed everything – for better or for worse.

Rylen shook off the memories that still had the power to chill his bones and instead tried to imagine Trice harming herself on purpose, but he couldn't reconcile the idea with the feisty, riled-up image of her that haunted his thoughts. The type of wounds and the location – the neck – seemed wrong. However, he'd only dealt with mages and templars in the past. If the experience had taught him nothing else, he'd learned that appearances could be deceiving.

Still caught up in his own head, he blindly walked out the gates and into the early morning shuffle of merchants and soldiers outside the keep. His musings came to an abrupt halt, however, as a familiar, bright voice chimed from his right.

"Well, well... the commander of the keep appears. I wondered how long it would take. I've already sent out your scouts in the last known direction of our attackers."

Gwin leaned against an outer wall, her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face. An answering smile bloomed on his lips, and he approached her, taking in the long golden hair contained in her typical braid, the pale gray eyes trained upon him and the lithe body curved into a deceivingly relaxed pose. He knew from experience, however, that the masterful rogue almost never truly relaxed, even during... distracting activities. Her previously pale skin bore the evidence of a hard ride through the desert, the sun and wind burned cheeks and forehead giving her a slightly weathered look. And of course, on her, the effect was charming.

"Good morning, Gwin," he replied with honest warmth. He'd always liked the woman, even without the enjoyable side benefits. "I'm glad to see you made it safely to the keep. Your dedication will save many lives. Anything further to report?"

A split-second bemused look crossed her face before it evened into a smile. "So formal this morning. Very well, I'll play." Gwin straightened and came to stand in front of him. "Like I told Mallory, I found the 'Vints near the castle-looking rock due north of here and followed them for less than an hour. I cloaked myself a couple of times to get closer and listen in, but I only discovered that they plan to strategically attack our outposts and weaken us before we have a chance to attack Adamant. I left them when they stopped to rest for the night and immediately headed here. I've directed your scouts to where I last saw them, but the 'Vints have scouts and rogues among them, too, so be careful about ambushes as you approach."

"Any idea which camp they'll attack first?"

"I'd guess they'll hit Echo Back Canyon camp outside the Coracavus Dungeon first and then take the ravine around to Lost Spring Canyon forward camp... and so on."

"Make a circle around the outer camps and save the keep for last, I guess," Rylen mused.

But Gwin shook her head. "They don't have the numbers to attack the keep. They'll avoid it altogether. This is a strategic hit to weaken us. But what I want to know is: Where are they coming from?"

Rylen glanced away to ponder this for a moment before his eyes widened and darted back to Gwin's. She nodded, recognizing that he'd come to the same conclusion she had.

"They wouldn't risk showing those kinds of numbers at Adamant," he acknowledged. "That many Venatori nearby would make the Wardens skittish, supposed allies or not. They must have a base of operation somewhere in the Approach."

"Somewhere near enough to have units on hand, but far enough to not attract notice," Gwin agreed.

"Talk with Mallory. We need to find it."

Gwin smirked as she saluted smartly. "Aye, aye, Knight-Captain."

_Knight-Captain._

Rozellene had broken the soldiers of the habit by steadfastly calling him simply captain. He'd even stopped saying the title out loud, though the words in his head were a different story. The only one who had called him that out loud since he'd relocated to the keep was ... Trice Valera.

Rylen jolted from his brief reverie at the feel of a hand on his arm. Gwin had stepped closer, her previous smirk replaced by something new - something that looked a little bit like concern. He stood up a bit straighter and raised a brow in silent question. She scrutinized him a moment more before squeezing his arm.

"When both of us have a moment, we should talk."

From the new, strange tenor of her voice, Rylen knew she wasn't implying anything sexual... but it _was_ something personal. That made him nervous. He avoided romantic relationships for that very reason - people presuming to know him, trying to take care of him and snoop into his business. Not that his friends - like Rozellene the little traitor - didn't do the same, but that was different. He didn't sleep with his friends, and he purposefully kept people like Gwin at an arm's length emotionally.

But for the first time in his life, Rylen couldn't think of how to reply... because, in all honesty, he understood what she felt. Despite his attempts to remain distanced, he'd come to respect her, to enjoy her company. He didn't love her. He knew enough to know _that_. But this path she suggested - the two of them talking about whatever personal thing she had in mind - would only end with unfulfilled expectations.

He stood there for an awkward heartbeat before raising his hand to cover hers where it lay on his upper arm. Finally, he decided to respond generically and let her decide what to make of it.

"Be safe, Gwin."

She actually snorted with a sudden fit of merriment. "You, too, you stubborn ass."

Smiling at her audacity, his eyes followed her as she moved past him and toward the gate. A moment later, she gracefully swiveled around to walk backward without losing her stride.

"See you around, Rylen," she called to him, a smirk curling her lips. "Don't get into too much trouble without me."

Then she turned on her toes and disappeared through the gate, leaving Rylen feeling at once relieved and a little bit sad. He tried to shake off the feeling as he organized the groggy troops assembling outside the keep in the predawn light. It followed him, however, and he began to suspect that his life - once so orderly and well managed - had been redirected without his knowledge or permission onto a wholly unfamiliar path.

A sudden memory of standing in the rain on the top level of the keep intruded on his rare moment of introspection, and he paused at the recollection of fat drops washing away four months of grime... and the strange sense of newness that had sprung up inside him that day. The more he tried to parse the feeling, however, the more muddled things became until he realized Corporal Addison had been trying to get his attention for who knew how long.

With apologies to the corporal, Rylen pulled himself out of the memory and shoved the disturbing thoughts away. He had Ventatori to find, and his soldiers could not afford for him to be distracted.

In the burgeoning light of dawn, he gathered his troops, rattled off instructions and then led them east. If nothing else in his life made sense, at least one thing remained consistent.

He was off to hunt rogue mages.

 

___________________________

 

On this, her second day with a morning off, Trice gathered the instructional books sent by Nellie and Marcel and instituted school hours once more. She'd expected some push back after so many unstructured weeks, but surprisingly, the children were more than ready. She sat them both at the table and began their first lesson with writing - Clara still practicing letter forms in common and Jacques picking up where he'd left off with writing Orlesian.

"You've improved so much, Jacques!" Trice praised in Orlesian as she watched him fly through the first writing lesson.

He responded in kind, "Monsieur Julien would only write answers to my questions in Orlesian during his lessons. Like when you would only speak Orlesian when we were learning, Mama. It helped a lot."

"Well, I hope I can keep you both on track, but I'm only copying what I remember from my teachers, I'm afraid. We won't be able to work together as often as you did with Monsieur Julien, but I hope you'll both continue to practice on your own."

"We sometimes talk in Orlesian when we play," Clara informed her. "Miss Muriel says she likes it."

Trice grimaced. "Please tell me you haven't been disturbing our busy quartermaster."

"Oh, we only drop by now and then," Jacques assured her in common this time, adopting his haughtiest Orlesian accent. "We are quite the most popular children around this place, you know."

“Because we’re the _only_ children!” Clara shouted, clearly familiar with the joke.

Inwardly cringing at the innocent reminder of their less-than-ideal situation - the situation she'd put them in - Trice forced herself to laugh. Jacques grinned, proud of his little joke, and she slid a hand through his hair as her laughter faded to a genuine, fond smile.

Jacques bent over his lesson again, the dark hair she'd just pushed back falling forward over his brow, and Trice's heart constricted with pride and overwhelming love for her smart, beautiful son. Her gaze turned to the miniature beauty on her left, fairer in complexion than her brother with her half Orlesian heritage, and a similar pinching of her heart left her struggling to keep the strong emotions at bay. If only she had been smarter all those years ago... but then again, she might not have met Jerome - might not have Clara - if she'd been less stubborn in the beginning.

"Will you teach me to write in Antivan, too?" Jacques asked suddenly, his head lifting up and cocking to the side.

"If you like, Jacques. You don't think you'd be confused to learn how to write in two languages at once?"

Jacques shrugged and responded in Antivan, "I'm sure I can manage."

They shared a smile, and then she set the children back to work for a while longer, each progressing nicely, though Clara's handwriting still left much to be desired even after months of practice. Clearly tiring of her writing assignment - perhaps one reason she had yet to improve - Clara twirled the pencil in her hand and kicked at the chair leg.

"Clara, why don't you pull out one of your new Orlesian books to read?" Trice offered with a resigned sigh.

Dropping the pencil, Clara shot from the chair and to the bookcase where they'd crammed as many of the new books as possible. Trice's books still lined the bottom of the chest now serving as a table for their art supplies, and she took a deep breath to disperse the tight throat and burn in her eyes every time she thought of them.

She also studiously avoided any thoughts of the man who had dealt with her so tenderly during her emotional breakdown the previous evening. They'd been on good terms for less than a week, and he was already doing an excellent job of worming his way into her heart. She shook her head to clear away the thoughts. Nothing could come of it in the end, and she could not afford to let him in.

Clara twirled her way back to the table with her book, but instead of opening it to begin reading, she set her dark, contemplative gaze on Trice. A small finger rose up to tap her chin and she tilted her head in that peculiar way she had. It took all Trice's forbearance to keep a straight face as Clara pondered whatever great question had entered her mind. Finally the girl spoke, her slight lisp making it all the more difficult to not smile.

"I wonder, Mama... what was school like for you?"

"Long," Trice joked, well aware of the girl's stalling tactic. Both children laughed, and Trice watched them a moment before letting her gaze slide to the window as images of her childhood filtered through the web of memory. "When I lived with your grandparents, I had a teacher much like your Monsieur Julien. I learned all about art and architecture of Antiva while touring the city, and we went on trips to Rialto Bay to learn about nature. Then, at thirteen I started at a girl's school in Antiva City." She clenched her jaw as she finished quickly. "And when I moved to Val Royeux to live with your great grandmother, I attended another school there."

Clara gave a little hum of supreme understanding and nodded her head as she opened her book, already weary of the topic she'd introduced. Jacques, however, sat unmoving, his eyes boring holes in his paper. Trice watched in confusion as a growing scowl marred his youthful skin with deep lines of consternation.

"Jacques? What is it?" she finally asked him softly while Clara began reading loudly from her side of the table.

She thought he might not answer, but then Jacques lifted his eyes from his paper, the scowl still firmly in place.

"Did you have to stop going to school because of me?"

Trice's jaw dropped open, her breath leaving her lungs in a stunned gasp. Her chest contracted painfully at the shadow that passed over Jacques' face during her moment of shocked silence. Clara quieted, and Trice struggled to force words through her closed throat.

"I thought so," he muttered before she could master herself.

"No!" Trice finally choked out. "I finished school, Jacques! You came after. What would make you think such a thing?"

He gritted his teeth and looked down, drilling holes in the table with his eyes once again. The stillness stretched between them before his voice, suddenly hard, but with the tiniest waver, split the quiet.

"I heard Uncle Marcel talking to Aunt Nellie once. He said having me kept you from... having things you should have had."

Trice sucked in a breath, still reeling from the sudden turn in the conversation, and silently cursed the institution of gossip - the Orlesian national pastime. Marcel had always resented her grandmother for the disinheritance, but he knew quite well that Trice had purposefully used the pregnancy to escape Baroness Delgado's cruel household. At the time, she would have done more - worse - to get away.

Trice had often wondered, especially during those first few months of retraining, how her loving father could have come from such a horrible woman. Trice's days of loving reproofs and gentle correction from her parents turned into slaps for sarcastic words and daily verbal dressing downs that would have crushed a less stubborn person. But then again, her father had been the youngest child of four and had often traveled with Grandfather to Antiva, so perhaps he'd escaped the majority of abuse. Or perhaps the Baroness had simply hated Trice's mother so much that any reminder of Analisa Delgado, even an orphaned daughter, was not to be borne.

Scooting forward, Trice gently grasped Jacques' chin, raising his watery eyes to hers. In spite of her efforts, her voice trembled with the force of her emotion.

"My love. My bright star. I wish you'd told me this long ago so that I could have set your mind at ease. You did _not_ keep me from things I might have had. It was another choice entirely that took those things away. And besides, I wouldn't trade you for _anything_ in this world. Do you understand? I would do everything just the same - all the good things and the bad things - if it meant I could be sure of having you." Then she turned and picked up Clara's hand, smiling tearfully at the wide-eyed little girl. "That goes for both of you."

She turned back to Jacques just as he pulled away from her and wiped the back of his sleeve over his eyes. He looked stubbornly out the window.

"You believe me, don't you?" Trice asked softly.

Jacques nodded, his eyes still watering slightly, but his expression hardened as he turned to her. "I want to know about the other choice - the one that did take everything away. If it wasn't me, what was it?"

Trice clenched her jaw and glanced at Clara before biting her lip... hard. "We'll talk about it some other time, Jacques."

Jacques's gaze slid to Clara, too, and then back to Trice. He looked as if he might argue with her but finally nodded and bent over his paper, writing furiously.

Trice stared at him, at the frown creasing his forehead and the furrow of his thick brows. He'd always been her emotional child, but this... pain stabbed through her as she realized that, whether she liked it or not, her little boy was growing up. He'd never pressed too hard about the past before, but clearly he'd been thinking about it nonetheless.

The truth had the power to hurt him deeply, but her evasions had only led to him holding on to a painful and false idea about how he'd come into the world. She could lie to and mislead anyone else, but she'd never do it to Jacques. Not about something this important. Perhaps, painful as it might be, it was time he knew the truth... just as soon as she worked up the courage.

If Jacques had anything to say about it, Trice had a feeling it wouldn't be long.


	14. Rules are meant to be broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Jacques finally talk. Rylen and Trice come to a painful understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end scene of Chapter 14 occurs on the same day as Chapter 53 of Part 1.

Trice leaned into the crenel above the main gate and absorbed the gentle hum of activity below. The arrival of the latest contingent from Skyhold had stretched the already full keep beyond capacity, and as a temporary relief, Lieutenant Kirel had arranged for soldiers to construct what now looked like a minor tent city around the keep.

A final burst of sunlight illuminated the swathes of canvas below in a fiery orange glow even as a dozen points of light gradually flickered to life - watch fires to guard against the occasional darkspawn that found their way to the keep from... somewhere. The sheer number of people milling about below and within the keep vaguely reminded Trice of the city life she'd left behind - if she ignored the soldiers training at all hours, the subtle stench of the sulfur pits when the wind carried in just the wrong way, and the distinct lack of fresh supplies.

She leaned back as a breeze billowed through her new, lighter dress - courtesy of Nellie - to cool the sheen of perspiration she now perpetually wore during the daylight hours. The radiant heat of the keep would fight with the cool desert breeze for hours to come, but she always preferred open spaces to the cooler-but-enclosed rooms below. Something about facing that expanse of desert both comforted her and set her on edge - an unknown vastness encompassing both friend and foe. The juxtaposed feelings seemed apt considering how safe she felt in the keep despite the Grey Warden threat looming large in their collective consciousness.

As she meditated on the sunset, her ear picked out the sounds of Jacques and Clara playing on the battlements behind her. They'd spent the afternoon doing school work, and their reward for good behavior had been an evening on the battlements - a place they weren't allowed to play without supervision. Their voices echoed across the stones, half talking, half arguing excitedly about a new game they'd developed. The rules changed every five minutes, so Trice had stopped trying to keep track of the actual game. As the exchange became more heated, she debated stepping in, but until someone started shouting, she usually tried to let them work out their own arguments. This one was still in the early stages, so Trice turned her attention back to the horizon.

In the muffled hum of early evening, her thoughts turned to a more immediate worry. Trice had mostly succeeded in ignoring the kernel of dread that had lodged itself under her skin at the idea of the captain taking on dangerous Venatori. After all, he'd done it before, and he'd certainly be doing it again soon enough.

They'd been gone for nearly four days now, however, and even the typical rumor mill had been suspiciously silent about the status of the captain and his unit. The fact that she'd heard no updates on his whereabouts or expected arrival back at the keep left her feeling uncomfortable. Off balance. And when she imagined all the things that could have possibly gone wrong...

No. Nothing could be gained from becoming overwrought. In fact, she had everything to lose if she succumbed to the dark thoughts - thoughts that had become stronger and more tenacious with each passing day. Whatever evil lurked in the desert beyond the keep, it seemed to seek her out in her nightmares - flashes of horror jolted her awake in the middle of the night as silent screams clawed at the back of her throat.

And focusing on negative thoughts during the light of day could only bring disaster. She allowed herself a single shudder and moved on.

As silent as the typical whispered rumors had been about the captain, wagging tongues came to life when discussing the possibility of the Commander, Inquisitor and her companions arriving for the attack on Adamant. Most pinned their arrival at three weeks hence, and cold dread settled in Trice's stomach as she thought about the cost of such a battle. It was one thing to think about it as some nebulous future event. It was quite another to know the day it would occur - the day when so many she'd come to know might be taken from her.

These thoughts would not do, either. Luckily, a shriek of anger broke her from her spiraling and had her walking quickly toward her children.

"NO! That's NOT IT!" Clara shouted. "You're doing it _wrong_!"

"I am not, you little whiner," Jacques countered, disgust evident in his looks and tone. "You're only upset because you think you're being cheated. But you aren't!"

"Yes, I am! CHEATER!"

Jacques threw his hands up with a growl of frustration. "That's _it_!" He cut a furious glance at Trice as she approached and pointed at his sister. " _You_ try to reason with her. I'm _done_ playing with _children_ today!"

Without another word, Jacques stormed off. Trice thought about going after him, but one look at her melt down in progress changed her mind. She knelt beside her daughter and waited for Clara's labored breathing to calm a bit before speaking gently.

"Are you feeling more in control now?"

Clara shook her head vehemently. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her brows furrowed deeply over pools of angry tears that had yet to make the trek down cheeks flushed in anger. Trice's knee complained fiercely about the hard stone, so she smoothed her skirts and sat down instead. The silence stretched, and Trice monitored the tremulous huffs of Clara's breathing and the few intrepid tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"How about now? Can you tell me what happened?"

Clara shook her head again, this time less fervently. After another beat or two of silence, she flicked a glance at Trice.

"I wanna go back to my room," she pouted.

Trice stood immediately and held out her hand for Clara. The girl took it, and they walked in silence back to the room. Trice quietly changed Clara into her pajamas, helped her clean her teeth and wash her face, and then sat next to her on her bed.

"How are you feeling now?"

Clara huffed and grimaced, then shrugged. "Better, I guess. Jacques was cheating. I don't like it when he does that."

"I know, darling. But are you sure he was cheating? Could it be that you two just didn't agree on the rules?"

She scowled and then shrugged again. "Maybe. Dunno."

Trice fought back a smile and kept her voice calm. "Do you think getting angry at Jacques was a good decision?"

Clara let out a pathetic whine and writhed on her bed. She ended up with her hair obscuring most of her face, and Trice had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She waited patiently as Clara wrestled with whether or not to admit what she knew was the right answer.

"Nooooo," she finally said with a barely visible lip tremor as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"What would be the kind thing to do when you two don't agree?"

"Find another game to play or come find you," Clara responded in a sulky tone.

Trice finally pushed the hair out of Clara's eyes and kissed her on the forehead. "See, you know all the rules. You just need to stop and think and then make a good decision."

"But sometimes... sometimes I wanna make a _bad_ decision."

"Well, that happens. It's up to you, of course, but you know-"

"I'll have to face the consequences," she intoned in a surprisingly good imitation of Trice. "I _know_ , Mama."

Trice finally allowed a small smile. "Then we won't have any more arguments between the two of you, will we?"

Clara gave a noncommittal grunt in response before launching herself at Trice and squeezing tightly. Trice laughed quietly and squeezed back. She laid Clara back on the bed, disentangling from the girl's arms.

"Time for sleep now. I need to go find Jacques, but we'll be back soon."

Clara murmured her understanding, already succumbing to the quiet and the comfort of her bed as Trice headed out in search of Jacques. The keep had innumerable nooks and crannies, but she found him just where she thought he'd be - leaning over the wall of the stargazing tower.

She approached silently as he stared into a sky harboring the final vestiges of daylight. The brightest stars already shone merrily in the sea of navy blue, and she tentatively set a hand on Jacques' shoulder. She counted it a success that he didn't immediately shrug her off.

"Tell me, Mama," he demanded after a long pause. "Clara isn't here now, and I want to know."

Trice's heart pounded suddenly and painfully in her chest. She hadn't expected it, but she should have.

"Is that why you've had so little patience with Clara lately?"

In the dim light, she made out the exaggerated roll of his eyes. She let out a puff of nervous laughter and nodded in response. Pulling away from him slightly, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and fixed her eyes on the fading horizon.

"I've told you about your grandmother and grandfather, so you know how I grew up. They were amazing people. I wish you could've met them. They would have spoiled you rotten." She chuckled lightly at the thought, then paused and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before continuing. "But when your grandmother died and I went to live with your great-grandmother, life wasn't so... nice anymore."

"I heard Uncle Marcel say she used to hit you," Jacques said in a small voice.

Trice sighed and put a hand over her eyes. Maker have mercy, how much did the poor boy already know? How many bits and pieces had Nellie and Marcel let slip over the years? Trice's throat tightened. Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy in her mouth as she pushed out the words.

"She did, yes," Trice managed in a surprisingly even tone. "She set impossibly high standards, and I, of course, never met them. No one could have. Those first few months were the most difficult as I learned how to avoid her wrath and hide my emotions. After that, things became easier. I asked to board at school, even though the Baroness' manor was only a few blocks away, and she agreed. I made new friends and was invited to stay with them on holidays and breaks. I almost forgot how awful she was during those last two years of school."

"But then school was over? Right?" Jacques asked, his voice still small and tentative in the growing darkness.

"Yes. I finished school just before I turned 17, and suddenly, your great-grandmother took renewed interest in me. I had become quite popular in school, you see, and I began receiving invitations to balls and soirees that the Baroness wished to attend as well. She wanted to advance her place through The Game, and I suppose she hoped she might foist me off on some lord or another in the process. At the time, I didn't have much to say against the idea as her abuse had continued all the stronger after I moved back to the manor."

Trice paused again, unsure of how much to say. Now that she'd opened the floodgates of recollection, a plethora of tiny details pushed to the forefront. The long-repressed memories of old friends and childish dreams glimmered before her like watery reflections - relics from another life that would disperse into a frenzy of waves with one touch.

Her life at 17 had been a carousel of ups and downs. She'd loved the excitement of a masquerade and the ease with which she'd slipped into The Game. One night held romance and passion, while the next left her breathless and at the mercy of one of Orlais' famous bards. Her first sexual experience had been on her 17th birthday at the hands of a renowned seducer... and she'd purposefully sought him out for that experience. Anything she did, she did with flare and abandon - away from the watchful eye of her grandmother, of course.

But Jacques didn't need to know any of that. She swiped a phantom hand over that pool of reminiscence and let the memories diffuse into chaos.

"Just before my eighteenth birthday, Val Royeaux held a great carnival in a wide plaza by the river. There, I met many new people, including a handsome Antivan sailor in the Empresses' navy." She sucked in a breath as a new set of memories coalesced. "Your father."

"Father?" Jacques said in a mildly confused tone. "But you've always said Father was a soldier, not a sailor. He was a chevalier for the Empress and died in battle."

Trice gritted her teeth. Now came the moment of truth.

" _Clara's_ father was a soldier. _Your_ father was a sailor."

She knew her son well enough to keep silent until he worked out what he wanted to say to that. The rising moon gave her enough light to watch the deep furrow develop in his brow as he processed the information. Finally, he turned to her and shook his head.

"You're saying Clara and I don't have the same father?" His voice cracked with the strength of his emotion. "Why didn't you tell me that before? Didn't you think I deserved to know?"

"Of course, you did - you do!" She reached for him but let her hand fall away when he recoiled from her with vehement shake of his head. "But darling, you have to understand... Jerome _loved_ being your father, had gladly taken you as his own since you were two years old. After he died, it seemed wrong to take that from you. As the years went by, I suppose I... I simply didn't know where to begin."

Jacques huffed, his lower lip trembling slightly - as it always did when they spoke of Jerome. The hurt in his face tore at her, and she longed to hold him close as she used to - as she had during those difficult months after Jerome had been killed in action.

Her boy was growing up, though, and he'd demanded his space. She had to respect that. So, they stood in silence for a long moment as Jacques gathered himself.

"So, who is my father, then?" he finally asked in a more controlled tone. "What happened to him?"

Trice nodded in relief at this tentative acceptance of her explanation and pushed forward with the story. "After meeting at the carnival, Jacques - your father - and I carried on in secret for several months. Your great-grandmother found out, of course, but by that point, you were already on the way. Your father offered for my hand, but the Baroness forbade it. In fact, she threatened to disinherit me if I married him. So," she said with a shrug, "I married him anyway, just to get away from her."

He stared at her a moment before blurting, "Wait... you and my father are... _married_?"

Trice gave him a sad smile and brushed the hair from his eyes. "Yes. We are. Or were. I'm sorry to say that I don't really know. Your father left on his ship shortly after you were born. I only saw him once more after that, and I haven't heard from him since."

She grimaced internally at the wide strokes with which she'd painted this particular half-truth. Jacques the elder had still wanted to marry her even after she'd told him of the disinheritance, and she'd foolishly taken it as proof that he loved her. In reality, he'd thought that her great-grandmother would change her mind once a child of her own blood was placed in her lap. How little he'd understood the Baroness Delgado. Any child of Trice's was tainted with Analisa's blood and therefore suspect at best.

The missives Trice had sent her grandmother after the birth of her great grandson went unanswered. Trice had been relieved but unsurprised. Jacques had been livid.

Afterward, Jacques the elder had played at fatherhood for a few weeks before leaving her on her own. He'd visited once more a few months later and sporadically sent her funds for another few months before that, too, dried up. It was only then Trice understood that, in her naivety and desperation to get away from her grandmother, she'd merely traded one type of hell for another. If it hadn't been for her dearest friends - Marcel's training in The Game and Nellie's training in the kitchen - she probably would have been forced into all kinds of unsavory methods of making money. She owed them more than she could ever repay.

"Do you think he's dead?" Jacques asked quietly.

"I honestly don't know, darling, but..." She swallowed hard and debated whether to speak further. Finally, she simply said, "If he were alive, he could have found me at any time, at least up until Clara was born. Either he chose not to... or he was lost at sea somewhere."

"What do _you_ think?"

Trust her son to ask the difficult questions. Trice leaned back on the merlon and sighed. She didn't want to hurt him with the truth, but she'd also promised herself that she wouldn't lie to him. She juggled the delicate balance of half-truths, hopeful that in the future Jacques would understand her reasons for omitting certain things.

"Well, I don't think he liked me very much toward the end. He believed I'd deliberately tricked him, even though I'd told him from the beginning that I would get nothing if we married. He wasn't ready for the responsibility of being a father." Trice knelt down and gently, tentatively grasped Jacques' arms. "But none of that reflects on you, my love. You are my gift. And you know I'd do it all again to have you."

Jacques nodded and didn't move away from her touch, but his eyes remained fixed on a point somewhere above her left shoulder. She drew in a deep breath and let go of him, but she remained kneeling in front of him.

"So, he's not..." Jacques struggled a moment before simply stating in a defeated tone, "He wasn't a good man."

"He wasn't bad, Jacques. He just... he wasn't very grown up at the time."

The boy let out a dissatisfied harrumph and crossed his arms, staring moodily into the distance. Trice let him stew for a moment more before gently leading him to the next topic.

"You understand why I didn't want Clara to hear this quite yet, don't you? She's not ready. When she gets a little older, we'll sit down and tell her all about it, but until then..."

"You want me to keep it a secret?" Jacques asked, a note of disapproval in his tone.

"For now, yes," she affirmed. "I know it seems like we're not telling the truth, but this is for the best, at least for right now."

He remained silent so long that she thought he might not agree, but suddenly he shrugged and blurted out, "It's strange."

"I know, but you'll get used to the idea-"

"No," he interrupted her before stopping to correct himself. "Well, yes. That. But no, I mean... I mean even knowing all that, I still think of Clara's father as... Father. I don't even know what this other man looks like."

Trice bit her lip to distract from the stinging behind her eyes. "That's ok. In fact, I think Jerome would have liked for you to still call him Father even after knowing that he didn't have a hand in your creation. He was a good man, and he loved you very much, blood or no."

"Would you have married Father if you hadn't already been married to... um... my father?"

Trice laughed. "Well, that's a complicated question for more reasons than one, but... yes, I would have happily married Jerome if I could have. There were other difficulties, though." Jacques looked as though he might ask more questions, so she cut him off with a slight raising of her tone. "But that's a topic for another night. You need to be getting ready for bed."

Jacques groaned, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated reluctance, and Trice felt the tension around her heart ease significantly. She playfully poked at him to get him moving, and the resulting laughter lightened her spirits further.

Deep down, she had secretly feared her son might blame her for her disastrous choices and especially for not telling him about his real father sooner. But Jacques had accepted his new reality with unexpected grace. Perhaps it had been her reaffirmation of Jerome's love for Jacques - which was heartbreakingly true. Trice knew Jacques would demand more answers once he'd had time to think things through, but for now, she took his initial acceptance for the blessing it was.

As they descended the tower to the upper level, a mild commotion rose up near the gates, and Trice's heart skipped a beat. The commotion grew louder with each passing minute, frantic shouts rising above the general tumult. She hurriedly pulled Jacques down the stairs to their room, but instead of heading inside with him, Trice hovered outside the door, casting longing glances down the corridor leading to the lower courtyard.

"I have a key here," she whispered as she turned to Jacques and patted her skirt. "Lock the door behind me. I'm going to see what's going on at the gate."

"Awww, can't I go with you? Pleeeease?"

Trice shook her head, her eyes trailing off down the corridor once more before settling on her son. "You need to get to bed. And try not to wake your sister. I'll be back soon."

Jacques closed the door on a long sigh, and Trice headed down the corridor toward the courtyard, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. Anxiety pushed past her defenses, filling her mind with dire scenarios of decimated troops and, worst of all, a leaderless unit in mourning for their fallen commander. She needed a dose of reality to cure the wild images conjured by her ever-increasing dread.

She stepped from the corridor to the stairway and promptly descended into chaos. Torchlight cast deep shadows on the frantic movements of soldiers darting back and forth across the courtyard, and she leaned back against the wall, keeping out of the way of the soldiers racing up and down the stairs.

Carefully peering around the narrow archway at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes apprehensively scanned over the crowd. She could lie to herself, but it would serve no purpose. In all that chaos, she only wanted one thing - a glimpse of a familiar strong jaw, or dark tattoos, or piercing eyes, or mussed black hair - to put an end to her spiraling trepidation. Was it only last night that she'd dreamed of sinking her fingers into that dark hair, of guiding his lips to hers, of feeling the scrape of his stubbled jaw against her neck?

The crowd parted long enough for her to spy soldiers carrying people on stretchers between them. Panic lunged upward, kicking her heart into a frantic rhythm as she examined the injured for any sign of the captain. The longer she looked, the more violently her knees trembled beneath her and the shallower her breathing became, until the air seized in her chest, the edges of her vision darkening. _Please, Maker, oh please, please..._

Then, in the midst of the chaos, a single voice rose above the rest. Her heart soared and her starving lungs filled with a sharp gasp of relief at the sight of his familiar, wide shoulders pushing through the main gate.

"Get the wounded to the lower level! Kirel, where are the healers? These men and women need attention. This isn't some fancy Orlesian tea party. People's lives are hanging in the balance. Move it!"

She couldn't hear the lieutenant's reply, but she didn't need to. Her trembling legs turned to jelly, and she stumbled backward against stairway wall to keep from falling over.

As the weakness passed and she sucked precious air into her burning lungs, Trice came back to herself with a strong and unpleasant surge of embarrassment. She looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed her presence, let alone her appalling state of mental disarray. She smoothed a hand over her hair and then down her skirt - more to soothe her nerves than to correct her appearance. And as she leaned against the wall, still listening to the firm and wonderfully alive rumble coming from the other side of the courtyard, she came to a grudging realization.

No point in lying to herself any longer about this, either.

Her feelings for the irksome captain had progressed much further than even she'd suspected. She'd gone so far beyond her lies of friendship and ill-conceived attraction that to refer to her feelings as such would be comical.

In spite of her better judgment, in spite of all the reasons she could not afford to fall for him, she'd done just that. She truly cared for him. And she didn't know what in the Maker's name she was going to do about it.

Her lungs constricted once again. She needed open spaces. She needed room to breathe. Pushing away from the wall, she walked blindly forward, eager to find the battlements, to take herself away from the scene and away from the ridiculously strong impulse to throw herself in the Captain's arms just to see if he would catch her.

 

___________________________

 

The lack of it itched at his mind on the seemingly endless journey back to the keep. It distracted him when he ordered Kirel to arrange for the wounded and when he carried in the final load of supplies taken from the Venatori camps. He especially thought of it with each sip out of the skin Kirel had handed him when he arrived.

Sips that could never quench. Water that left his throat parched for want of it. He could drown in a river and never touch that want. But he drank anyway - long, cool draughts of water - and he told himself he felt better. He told himself he didn't need anything else.

With Kirel's assurance that he'd take care of the rest, Rylen pushed on into the keep. Mallory would have correspondence for him. With each step, pain pulsed upward from the soles of his feet, through his legs and into his torso, numbing his mind to all but the inexorable ache. He hadn't realized he'd stopped on the stairs at the passage to his quarters until a soldier behind him meekly asked to be let through.

Rylen jerked into awareness, backing toward the wall to let the man through, a mumbled apology on his lips. He dared not let his back hit the wall, or he might never move again.

He might succumb to the alluring relief only a few steps away.

One breath. Two breaths.

With monumental effort, he turned his steps toward his original destination and away from the room that held the key to quenching his want... at the cost of his dwindling sanity.

The campaign had been brutal. The Venatori had attacked in waves in an attempt to wear them out. Luckily, his troops remembered their formations and avoided being drawn into the enemy's games. Still, even with the scouts reporting back Venatori movements and giving them time to prepare for each attack, he'd lost many good soldiers, and many more had been wounded grievously.

Of the mages they'd taken along, a few had some skill at healing, and of course, he'd previously stationed a healer at each of the camps. But it hadn't been enough. The mages had burned through their lyrium supplies toward the end of the third day, and Rylen had given them his last ration to use as they could. It wasn't the same as a lyrium potion, but an alchemist among them had rendered a crude facsimile to give the healers enough mana for a few more spells.

He'd thought at the time that if it saved even one soldier's life, it was well worth the pain of a little withdrawal. He'd do well to remember that now, especially as his continued pain was completely self inflicted.

Four days. Four days of heavily using his templar powers and one day without lyrium rations had reduced him to a trembling mass of bones barely held together by the sinews and muscles burning with lack. He'd told himself he could wait until the regular morning ration...

_Maker. How does Cullen do this all the time?_

He retrieved the correspondence from Mallory with as little conversation as possible, but the concerned glint in the senior agent's eye spoke volumes. Rylen escaped to the upper battlements, ambling slowly along the wall in an attempt to hide how every step pained him, every breath choked him. His skin crawled in the cooling evening air, and the wrongness that had followed him since Starkhaven intensified to the point of becoming unbearable.

Suddenly, his right leg collapsed under him. He reached out for the wall beside him, leaning into the stone to catch himself.

"Maker, just let me get through the assault, will you? Let me be useful for Cullen's sake. Then you can kill me off whenever you like." The words slipped past his lips before he even realized he'd opened them to speak. His voice sounded odd to his own ears - desperate, guttural. Rylen grunted in pain before muttering, "Bloody bastard."

He wasn't sure if he were speaking of the Maker or himself... or maybe Cullen, who'd inspired this absurd fit of self denial. He twisted his body and clung to either side of the v-shaped crenel, letting his head fall forward as he waited for the weakness to pass - if it ever did.

A scuff along the stone behind him alerted him to the presence of another person - not surprising considering how many people were in and around the keep these days. He kept his head down in hopes that the person would continue on their way.

After a long pause, he caught the barest hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. The person didn't approach him but rather stopped at the parapet wall about ten feet away. He wondered for a moment if it were Mallory following him to make sure he got back to his office, but something about that felt wrong. The presence beside him imparted an inexplicable sense of warmth and comfort, two things that Mallory, for all his good qualities, lacked.

Keeping his eyes down, Rylen turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his companion. His heart pitched about like a wild thing in his chest at the gleaming black hair, caramel skin and soft curves of the one person he most wished would never see him in his current state.

"Captain," she murmured in greeting, a sweet sound to his ringing ears.

"Madame Valera," he acknowledged in return.

His voice caught, breaking on her last name. He cleared his throat and silently cursed the Maker for his luck. He didn't know why she'd chosen to stand next to him. Perhaps, in a reverse of their meeting on the astrarium tower, he'd intruded on _her_ usual haunt. He had neither the time nor the foolhardiness required to scratch that particular itch to know her every movement and her daily habits - no matter how tempting it might be.

"You can... you may call me Trice," she said softly. "If you like."

"Only if you'll call me Rylen."

His voice came out stronger this time, but only barely. He glanced over and found her standing ramrod straight and staring out into the desert night. Her faint acquiescence came after a long pause, as if she were parsing the ramifications of such a deal. He'd at once desperately hoped for her agreement while also dreading the exquisite torture of hearing his name on her lips.

_Torture it is, then._

They lapsed into a silence that stretched on - neither comforting nor awkward. It simply... was. He kept his head down, his eyes on the stone below, but his body had already become achingly attentive to her presence - a different kind of ache to add to the others. The silence merely enhanced his awareness of every swish of her skirt in his ear or faint hint of spices in his nose. The weakness in his legs gradually dissipated.

The pain did not. Inhaling deeply, he let the air stretch his lungs to uncomfortable fullness in an attempt to distract himself from the stabbing sensations in his legs and the ache in his head currently vying for attention.

"I heard..."

Trice's voice broke the stillness, and Rylen discovered that her voice was an even better distraction. He turned toward her once more, but she held steady, peering unflinching into the darkness. More awake to his own body than he'd been for most of the day, he pushed himself up in increments and willed his muscles to remain solid as he attempted to draw her out of whatever mood had sent her to this wall, to him.

"You heard...?" he prompted.

She let out a gentle laugh, her eyes dropping to where her hands rested on the stone wall. "Well, rather, I... we _didn't_ hear anything about you... your success. No one knew anything until you came through the gate tonight. I'm glad..." She pulled in a breath, and Rylen's heart jerked painfully in his chest in anticipation of her words. Finally, her voice descended to a near whisper as she admitted, "I'm glad you're alright."

He had to work to overcome his sudden breathlessness. She'd been the one to suggest their foray into friendship, of course, and her actions - mainly her insistence on feeding him - indicated that she at least had a minimal concern for his well-being. But this...

"We didn't want to give away our plans. Missives have a tendency to be intercepted or mishandled, especially where Venatori are concerned. I..." He swallowed and peered carefully at her profile as he continued. "I'm sorry to have caused you any alarm."

"Oh, it wasn't... I didn't mean... it was because of, um... because of Katlin. She was beside herself when we woke to find you'd gone out Venatori hunting along with half the keep."

"Katlin?" Rylen repeated in a bewildered tone. "Your assistant cook? What has she to do with anything?"

He turned fully away from the black night and instead focused his attention on the woman who had yet to look at him in all this time. Her face, illuminated by the warm torchlight, contorted into a grimace, but still, she kept her eyes facing forward.

"She... you and she seemed to have developed a... rapport during the past week. I had thought..." She cleared her throat before finishing lamely, "Nevermind."

Days of hard fighting, nights of interrupted sleep and a missed ration had left him muddled, but even at his best, he wondered if he could have parsed this mystery. Trice seemed to have the strange misapprehension that a bit of flirting could compare with the brain-melting heat that, even now, at his worst, sizzled between them. He wished he were in any kind of shape to prove her wrong, but his body was already protesting his minimal movement into an upright position. He settled for using his words.

"I have no interest in Katlin."

"Oh," came the suspiciously breathless reply.

"She is a friend, and I don't... dally with my friends."

At the declaration, silence descended, but this time, tension crackled in the space between them. His lyrium-deprived thoughts caught up with him a moment later.

_Fucking shit._

In his haste to reassure his _friend_ Trice of his lack of intentions toward Katlin, he'd declared himself uninterested in Trice as well. He closed his eyes, cursing himself and wondering how poorly a walk-back would sound at this point, wondering if he should even bother when she seemed so oblivious to him.

Then his brain fully caught up, and he questioned why he was even considering backtracking on his statement. He'd made the perfect declaration to keep her at a distance. No matter that he quite fervently hated the distance between them and was even now, in the back of his mind, working on a plan to get closer. No matter that, with her, the lines had been blurred from the beginning, his interest in her going far beyond lust, as evidenced by his inability to forget her during the months since they'd first met in Val Royeaux.

As he pondered the tangled web of his feelings and wishes, Trice turned her head toward him, though her eyes remained averted. A rueful smile cut across her lips before she turned back to face the vast darkness.

"Is that some sort of personal line you refuse to cross?" she asked skeptically. "I know the Chantry discourages templars from having relationships, but they don't ban them entirely. I'd think such a line would make relationships difficult... if not impossible."

"It's supposed to make things _less_ difficult, actually," he responded, clinging to his philosophies like a wild dog would its first dinner in days.

"I see. So when a lover becomes too much like a friend, you what? Simply stop speaking to them?"

Unbidden, and image of Gwin popped into his head. "Not exactly. But I certainly can't... be with her anymore."

Trice snorted. "That's absurd."

Now that he'd said the words out loud, he could admit to himself that it did sound a bit strange. But those rules had allowed him to remain aloof and focused on his templar duties for fifteen years, and serving the Inquisition required no less attention to his responsibilities. And yet... recently, even thoughts of the woman who'd long ago broken his heart couldn't stifle the rebellious thoughts of what it might be like to break those rules just a little... with _her_. Shaking his head to dislodge the thought, Rylen conjured up one of a hundred reasons romantic entanglements bred nothing but discord.

"It's better than being locked outside your room in the middle of the night with nothing but the bits the Maker gave you, your armor held for ransom by a vindictive ex."

She laughed at this, and Rylen's body warmed all the way to his fingertips. The low, soft sound settled in his thoughts like an animal to roost, melding with the other memories of her that he safely hid in the deepest part of him.

"Sounds like you've learned from experience, then."

"Well, that particular set of events didn't happen to me," he admitted, "but I've seen it often enough. My own story is more trite than that, I'm afraid."

"Oh?"

Maker's breath, she wanted him to talk about Zora? He didn't have the mental capacity for it tonight. Or any night.

"I'll make you a deal," he deflected. "You tell me why you're out here tonight, staring into the darkness like a lost little lamb, and I'll tell you more about the rules I live by."

Trice inhaled deeply, and on the exhale, she let out a soft hum. Another silence descended between them until, finally, her voice cut through the sounds of a keep winding down for the night.

"On my eleventh birthday, my parents threw me an elaborate party. We lived in the city, but my parents knew a man who owned a house on the bay. The house looked like something out of a little girl's dreams - gold filigree ornamentation, expansive rooms with white marble floors and columns, a rooftop dance floor roped with orbs of magical light and an unbelievable view of the bay."

It took Rylen longer than it should have to realize she wasn't talking about Val Royeaux. "Rialto Bay?" he guessed.

Trice nodded. "That rooftop was my favorite part. I could stand at the railing and look into the endless horizon for hours. Of course, I knew that Rivain was out there somewhere, but from so high up, I could imagine that the ocean went on forever. It was one of the most magical experiences of my life." She stopped and leaned forward into the crenel, her hands pressing forcefully into the stone, before continuing in a softer and yet somehow harsher tone. "Jacques will turn eleven in a few days, and all I have to offer is this."

She lifted a hand and swept it over the darkened night sky. He looked out into the expanse of nothingness and let her words settle between them. She had obviously grown up with some measure of wealth if her family could afford such an extravagant birthday party. The experience stood out in her memory, though, which meant she hadn't been exposed such things every day.

Whatever her situation as a child, she had clearly come upon some sort of trouble in the ensuing years and now could not provide for her children the way her parents had for her. Her despondent words tonight only solidified Rylen's earlier resolve to find an outlet for Jacques. At nearly eleven, he'd be needing it sooner rather than later, and what boy his age wouldn't love to learn a bit of something about sparring and swordplay? With the battle so close at hand, Rylen wouldn't have much time to give, but he'd manage something.

"And now you know why I'm staring moodily into the night. But enough of that, what are these rules of yours? I must hear this."

Her voice had flipped completely, the despondency now hidden by a teasing lilt, and for the first time all evening, she turned to face him. Rylen took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them as he arranged his thoughts, muddy from exhaustion and lyrium withdrawal. He could end the conversation now and go back to his office, but in spite of his condition, he had no desire to end this rare, quiet time with her just yet.

"I suppose that's fair. You know the first. Never dally with your friends. The second is always keep a cool head, especially in tense situations."

At this, Trice's brow quirked in good-natured challenge. "That's a rule of yours? No offense, Cap- ... Um... Rylen, but I've seen little to support that."

Rylen stared at her, sluggishly processing this. He arrived at the embarrassing conclusion that she was right - he'd done nothing that would support such a claim. In fact, he'd done nothing _but_ break his own rules around her, which reinforced exactly how dangerous she could be to him.

"Yes, well, these past few weeks have been... atypical."

She hummed out a laugh. "Based on how everyone kept harping on some variation of 'he's not normally like this,' I believe you. Why is that, do you think?"

Maker, he should have bowed out of this conversation when he had the chance. On a good day, she kept him on his toes. On a bad day, that tongue of hers could dance circles around him, and today was his worst day yet. He had just enough mental faculty to keep his answer to a half-truth but none left to nuance it.

"I'm..." he began, but then stopped, his mouth suddenly dry. Licking his parched lips, he dropped his eyes to the stone floor between them and tried again. "The things we face here are more... just _more_ than anything I ever dealt with at the Circle. We have to train up soldiers who have a passion for the cause but haven't the muscle mass to hold up a practice sword let alone a real one, poor bastards. It's enough to test any man's mettle, especially knowing what's coming."

He raised his eyes to find all the mirth had drained from her face. She took a small step toward him, raised a hand to the stone wall at her side, and turned to watch her fingers brush across the sand-smoothed surface. He watched those fingers, too, irrationally jealous of a piece of stone.

"What else?" she asked.

"Plan ahead - don't be caught off guard."

The words themselves brought back memories of his most egregious failure on that front. He struggled not to collapse under the weight of it - the lives lost because of him somehow heavier and more real this evening. A small voice whispered that the heaviness had always been there but had been masked by the constant flow of lyrium. It whispered to him of cowardice. Of failure.

"Have you ever planned for something like this?" she asked softly. "This kind of battle, I mean."

"We prepare for it every day, don't we?" he responded gruffly, the memories cajoling his tongue into spilling truths he'd rather keep hidden. "But the only battle of this scale I've ever been in was Haven, and by anyone's standards, we did little more than run into the hills licking our wounds. Many good soldiers lost their lives to give us that chance, though."

She looked away from where the pads of her fingers scraped against the stone, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. As painful as it might be, he knew she would tell him the truth of it. He braced himself for her condemnation, but her features, hard as the stone surrounding them, belied her words.

"From what I have heard, the attack on Haven was completely unexpected. It seems to me you handled the situation as well as you could."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, lass," he said after a short pause to gather himself. "It... I'm grateful to know not everyone views the events as poorly as those who experienced them... those who should have anticipated them."

"You're too hard on yourself," she murmured, a hint of exasperation in her tone.

He huffed out a sardonic laugh to cover his continued surprise. "You're right, of course. I'm only in charge of thousands of men and women. I shouldn't be so hard on myself when I let them die."

She shook her head, her hand dropping from the wall as a wry smile cut through her serious expression. "I can see you won't be convinced, but for the record, you're being rather dramatic. You are not responsible for this war, and everyone here knows that you do everything in your power to keep your people safe. It is a tragedy when any life is lost, but I forbid you to deride or devalue yourself in my presence, Rylen."

"As you wish, your highness," he responded quietly to her authoritarian tone, the epithet feeling more like a caress than a taunt at this point.

She bestowed upon him a rueful smile and shook her head at the nickname. Her eyes did not falter, however, and the absolution offered up in those glittering depths tempted him more than anything ever had before. He hadn't known how much he craved it, from her especially, until she offered it up so freely. The truth he read in her gaze and the sincerity of her words nearly sent him to his knees as warm and ardent affection bloomed in his chest. He didn't register his own movement until he felt the curve of her hip under his hand and heard the slight inhalation pass between her parted lips.

The heady scent of fresh bread and cinnamon filled his nostrils, and he leaned closer, inhaling softly and letting his eyes close briefly at the deep longing pulsing under his skin. And yet, standing so close to her, he'd never felt more content in his life. He waited for her to back away from him, but she stood like a statue, her elevated breathing the only indication that his actions had affected her at all. He opened his eyes and looked down, nearly groaning aloud at the sight of her gaze locked on his mouth. Perhaps she wasn't as oblivious to him as she seemed.

"Any other rules I should know about?" she asked in a slightly rough tone.

"Plenty," he rasped. "But as you seem to be the exception to all of them, lass, I don't see much point in continuing the conversation."

"All of them?" she asked on a whisper.

"Every... last... one."

At this, her eyes flicked up to his, wide and guileless, a hart frozen in the path of a lion. All the weakness, the self-doubt, the exhaustion faded away at the drumming in his chest, the humming of stifled electricity under his skin and the breathless quiet between them. Her closeness and his lyrium addled emotions conspired to stoke the fires of desperation in his fingers. Keeping his hand on her hip, he raised the other hand slowly, as if any sudden movement might send her skittering away.

The instant his loosely curved fingers came in contact with the supple skin of her neck, the caged lightning broke free and ripped through his gut. They simultaneously sucked in shuddering breaths, jolts of sensation arching through each point of contact, and her eyes fluttered closed as his shaking fingers grazed over heated skin in the lightest of touches. He gently cupped her jaw, and her thick lashes trembled against her cheeks in response, her skin burnished golden in the glowing torchlight and warm under his callused palm.

Spots of color bloomed high on her cheeks as he felt the twin electric shocks of one hand grasping his back and the other gripping his upper arm. He had the sudden urge to brush his lips across those high cheekbones just to see how deep a flush he could elicit from the prickly, perfect woman who had so quickly and expertly turned his world upside down.

And so, he did. He leaned down slowly, memorizing every detail of her skin until his eyes fell closed as he brushed his lips over one cheekbone. His lids, heavy with the desire to lose himself in her, cracked open just enough to take in the sweet flickers of emotion crossing her face as he slowly skimmed his lips over the bridge of her nose. She sucked in another breath, and another, her stuttering exhalations washing sensuously over his jaw while he descended upon the other cheek. His lips lingered there a moment while he inhaled the spice of her skin, reveled in the softness of her face under his wind-burned lips.

" _Trice_."

He breathed her name against her skin like a prayer, aching to taste her lips and yet hesitant - as if the deeper part of him knew that it was a line he dared not cross. With torturous slowness, he slid the hand on her hip around her back and pulled her close while pressing feather light kisses to the corner of her eye, her eyelid, her eyebrow. He paused to kiss that place between her brows often scrunched in disapproval, especially at him, and then rested his lips against her forehead, fighting to control the breathless sensations urging him to go faster, taste more.

All the want inside him condensed to this one moment, this one thing. He _wanted_ \- absolution, compassion, provocation, intimacy, _happiness_ \- and he wanted them with her. Only her. He truly had broken all his rules, but in this one moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Rylen?"

She breathed his name, only the barest hint of a question in her inflection. Her eyes remained closed, so he let his mouth leisurely drift over her other eyelid and her cheek until he reached the line of her jaw. He scraped his teeth tenderly across the skin there for the briefest moment, and a thrillingly breathless whimper erupted from the back of her throat.

The sound tugged at something primal and urgent deep inside him, and it took all his willpower to resist the pull of his heavy arousal, to separate his lips from her skin. Unwilling to lose all contact, he rested his cheek against her temple. Of course, that brought her delicate ear in close proximity. He settled for speaking softly into it rather than setting his mouth to the sensitive skin behind it.

"Darling Trice, I might as well tell you... I have no idea what's happening right now. You take all my carefully laid plans, all my rules - years in the making - and turn them to dust. I... I can't promise you anything, but I want... Maker... I want..."

He'd never had trouble speaking plainly to a woman before, and the clumsiness of his tongue irritated him. She'd upended everything he'd ever known about the feelings that could exist between a man and a woman, and the new, unexplored territory left him clueless about where to begin. He sighed, the words all jumbled up in his mouth with little hope of emerging in any kind of coherent fashion. And all he wanted was to kiss her. To taste her. To give in.

Seeming to sense his waning self control, she leaned back from him, her cheek brushing past his lips. When she opened her eyes to look up at him, he groaned softly at the haze of lust he read there. She didn't shy away from his touch, so he kept his arm firmly around her waist, his hand gently cupping her face, his thumb sweeping back and forth across her jaw in a slow, sensual rhythm.

"I know what you mean," she finally whispered. "But..."

He felt her swallow under his palm, her eyes sharpening as she awoke more fully from the strange dream world of the past few minutes. Like an approaching storm, a deep melancholy gradually replaced the lust in her eyes. An echoing response rose up within him as he read the words in her expression before they ever left her lips.

"But this is not a good idea... for either of us."

He could only look at her for a long, excruciating moments, trying to come up with an argument, any argument. Anything to keep her in his arms. But she took a step away from him - slowly, as if the separation pained her as much as it did him.

"Obviously, it would be foolish to deny the... attraction between us," she continued in an increasingly desolate tone. "But neither of us can offer the other any kind of permanency, and I gave up on meaningless flings long ago." She let out a small huff and shook her head, her gaze dropping away from his for a moment before returning to pin him with her doleful eyes. "Not that this is meaningless, but-"

"No, you're right," he affirmed as he gently cut her off. Sanity infiltrated his foggy thoughts in increments, and he shoved a shaking hand through his hair as reason materialized out of the obscure depths of his consciousness to stand side-by-side with the wretched reality of their situation. "Whatever I might feel-"

"We might feel," she corrected firmly.

He smiled softly at her affirmation. Pain and longing sliced through him at this show of strength and openness. How had he ever thought he disliked her?

"Whatever _we_ might feel, we are better off remaining friends... at least until the world isn't on the brink of going to the Void."

She drew in a shuddering breath, her face briefly contorting in pain before smoothing into a calm facade. "Then, we understand one another."

The physical pain relegated to the back of his mind during their interlude returned with a vengeance, now accompanied by a sharp ache in the vicinity of his heart and an exhaustion that had nothing to do with his physical weakness. At least he would have her as a friend. And he wouldn't have to break his rules after all. Strange how, instead of providing the comfort it always had before, the thought only depressed him further.

"We do," he said softly. "I'm sorry if I caused you any distress with my attentions, lass."

"Oh, no. No. I rather wish..." She shook her head. "No distress."

They stood staring at each other for a long moment, the few feet of space they'd put between them feeling more and more like a gaping crevasse. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it, staring at him as if this might be the last time she'd ever see him.

In spite of his desire to extend his time with her as long as possible, his limbs, previously carried by the adrenaline of their closeness, now threatened to collapse. He needed to get to his office before he embarrassed himself any further.

"I'll let you go, then."

She didn't miss his double meaning. She nodded, her facade cracking slightly as she whirled away from him and hurried down the nearby stairs.

Away. Away from him. Away from all the things he couldn't offer her.

"You're still a fool, Rylen," he muttered to himself. "About a great many things."

He groaned as he reached down to pick up the correspondence he'd dropped earlier and then slowly shuffled back to his office, taking the stairs to the upper level one at a time, all the while heaving like a new recruit. Finally, he dropped the correspondence on his desk and fell into his chair, breathing heavily.

Even now, he wasn't sure why he'd fixated on not taking more lyrium until tomorrow. To prove that he could? To get his body accustomed to the lack of it even as he slipped himself extra rations more and more often? Whatever the reasons he'd begun with, he clung tenaciously to the idea now, a seed of thought whispering that perhaps a lyrium-free Rylen might be able to make something of himself, might be able offer a woman something more than a broken, soldier-shaped shell of a man.

With no other distractions, the withdrawal pains intensified to the point of tears, and Rylen did the only thing he could think of - he brought back those precious moments of touching, of tasting, of holding her. At least he now had those precious few memories to occupy his mind rather than that crawling need that had asserted itself as soon as she'd left his sight. Even now, he could smell the spice of her skin...

His chest constricted as, unbidden, he replayed the moment she'd turned from him, her face contorting in pain, and he knew, without a doubt, that he'd break every rule he'd ever made to become the kind of man who could offer her a home, a life.

Because what good were rules when Trice Valera looked at him like he'd just broken her heart?

 

**

 

Rylen took the stairs three at a time, stopping at the top to address Lieutenant Kirel.

"I need you to take over this afternoon's training schedules. The corporals should be working on techniques for breaching the battlements as well as how to effectively fight in narrow spaces."

Kirel nodded eagerly. "Of course, Captain. Anything else?"

Rylen had already begun walking away. "Not right now. I'll send for you if I need anything."

Unlocking his office, he threw off his outer armor and dropped into his chair - the same chair he'd slept in last night. He'd woken that morning with a gnawing hunger in his gut and a massive crick in his neck. He grimaced at the recollection of the shame mixed with relief he'd felt as the silvery liquid slid down his parched throat and quickly disseminated through his body.

Unfortunately, the extended time without lyrium had only emphasized exactly how much the lyrium dulled his senses. His muscles sang with the power of the drug, but his thoughts only focused more sharply at the expense of tumultuous and long-ignored emotions. He gained the razor focus and the critical and analytical skills on which he'd always prided himself. He lost his ability to fully _feel_.

He grimaced again and forced himself to focus on the correspondence he'd ignored last night. He'd missed breakfast, but he had plans for his lunch break. All of those plans depended on him finishing his duties first.

He bent over the papers and reports and quickly lost himself in the details of training plans sent from Skyhold, progress reports from the sappers concerning siege equipment construction, and a vague missive from Gwin about possible locations for Venatori encampments around the Approach. Engrossed in his work, he answered in a harsher than normal tone when a soft knock sounded at his open door.

"Whatever it is, it can wait. I have plans for this afternoon that I cannot-"

Rylen cut off as he lifted his head to find not a soldier, but a boy of ten standing at his door. Jacques arms were full of books and papers, but the boy was already backing away, his face a carefully blank mask.

"'K," he mumbled. "It's not really important anyway."

Rylen quickly stood up and rounded his desk, stopping the boy's retreat with a soft, "Jacques, wait."

The boy had taken several steps away already, but he turned back slightly at the sound of his name. Rylen smiled ruefully and approached, catching a large scroll that fell from Jacques' arms in the process.

"Well then. I'd planned to come find you this afternoon, but apparently you beat me to it, lad. What have you got there?"

Jacques face flickered with confusion followed quickly by disbelief. " _I'm_ your afternoon plans?"

"Just so, boy. Last time we met, I believe you said you had something to show me? I'm sorry I had to delay our meeting for a few days. It's those da- dratted Venatori, you know, squawking like dracolisks and annoying everyone to the point of violence."

A small smile escaped Jacques tight control, and he huffed a little laugh. "I've never seen a dracolisk. Have you?"

Rylen laughed as he put a gentle hand on the boy's back and guided him back to the office. "Oh, aye, lad, I have. Some people are daft enough to ride them, but I'd rather sing the Orlesian national anthem in my smalls in front of the entire Inquisition army than set my a- bum on one of those abominations."

Jacques laughed more loudly this time as he set his treasures out on the space Rylen cleared on the desk. The boy bit his lip then, seeming to lose a little of his nerve, and Rylen quickly pulled up two chairs, settling himself and allowing the boy to sit as well.

"Well, what have we here?" Rylen prompted.

"Um... star charts? And some books. I remember you said you used to look at them sometimes. I thought you might..."

Jacques trailed off as he looked up to find Rylen staring at him. Rylen sucked in a breath and turned toward the books to cover his surprise. He'd already read one of the books Jacques had brought in the Starkhaven Circle, but the others were new to him. The charts had been drawn to focus on the Approach specifically, and not for the first time, Rylen wondered exactly how much money and effort Trice's friends had put into these gifts. Clearly, the Guerins were more like family to the Valeras than friends.

"You... wanted to share these with me?" Rylen asked, his voice rougher than he'd have liked.

Jacques shrugged. "I mean, if you want. Mama said you might not have time, but I thought... maybe... we could..."

"Yes," Rylen said firmly as he began digging through the charts. "Yes. We should study them this afternoon and then see what we can find tonight." Holding up two of the scrolls he studied them for a moment before putting them aside. "Those are fall and winter charts. We're heading into spring, so we should focus on that for today."

Rylen smiled and looked over at the boy. Jacques smiled in return and then jumped up out of his seat to grab the spring chart. He spread it over the desk as Rylen thought through his next words, weighing each phrase carefully.

"I also had something I wanted to ask you."

Jacques paused in straightening out the curled paper, a glimmer of suspicion gathering in his eyes. "What's that?"

"Have you any interest in learning basic sparring?"

The boy's eyes widened to saucers. "You mean real sparring... with _swords_?"

Rylen laughed. "Swords, staffs, daggers... whatever interests you. They wouldn't be real weapons, mind you. I have no desire to face your mother if anything should happen to you. The Empress herself would think twice before crossing your mother."

Jacques grinned at that, a real, genuine grin that transformed his serious demeanor into an expression more fitting an almost eleven-year-old boy. Unable to help himself, Rylen ruffled the boy's hair, eliciting another boyish laugh.

"Well, then. What do you say?"

"Yes! Yes, please! When can I start?"

"We have drills every morning. You can begin any time. I'll make sure you have armor that fits and an available practice sword. Unfortunately, I won't be able to devote much time to it until..." Rylen cleared his throat, unwilling to contemplate anything other than success. "...Until after the assault."

The boy's eyes dimmed at that, and he looked down at the charts before him. "I can wait if that's better. I don't want anyone to be unprepared because of me."

Impressed by the boy's understanding, Rylen placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You won't. I'll make sure of it. Join us tomorrow?"

Jacques gave him a side-long glance, a sly smile appearing as he nodded. Satisfied, Rylen gave a curt nod in return and began looking over the star chart Jacques still held open on the desk.

"Now, let's see what we can find, shall we?"


	15. Fighting demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rylen and Trice have a hard time with the "just friends" thing. Jacques and Rylen have some more bonding time. And a visitor to the keep causes some mild angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned out to be a long chapter! I hope you enjoy. :)

The next morning Rylen strode toward the kitchens filled with a strange amalgam of anxiety and excitement. He had yet to see Trice since their talk on the battlements, and he wasn't sure what to expect. Nervousness? Awkwardness? Avoidance? He couldn't imagine her being shy...

Thoughts trailed away like wisps of fog caught in a morning breeze as the quiet of the hall gave way to a muted chorus. Curious to find the source, he took the stairs up to the next level three at a time. The closer he got to the kitchens, the louder the singing became. By the time he reached the doorway, he'd discerned the children's voices ringing clearly above the murmurs of those quietly singing along.

Jacques and Clara stood on top of some crates at the far end of the kitchen near the opposite door. Their song - a melody Rylen remembered Orlesian children singing in the Circle - echoed around the room. Rylen hovered in the doorway, surprised to find a few soldiers leaning against the walls and also singing along quietly. His eyes swept around the room before landing on the person he'd come to see.

Her hands worked at a mound of dough, but like everyone else, she only had eyes for the children. Rylen, however, found he could not look away once he'd seen her. Her eyes sparkled with joy and pride, crinkling around the edges from the force of her grin. He'd never seen her smile so, and the sight left him restless.

He took a step into the room, but no one paid him any mind. The kitchen staff, though still going about their duties, sang along if they knew the Orlesian words or bobbed their heads in time with the music if they didn't. Their smiles and glances toward the children revealed the deep joy they derived from the simple song. Rylen quietly moved forward, looking to the children as well.

He saw the exact moment Jacques noticed his appearance. The boy's spine stiffened into something resembling attention, and his voice, already boisterous, took on a clipped and serious tone. Jacques' eyes found his, and Rylen nodded in acknowledgement as he fought back a grin.

The boy's intense gaze brought Rylen's thoughts around to their half hour on the star-gazing tower the night before. Jacques, with his fits of excitement followed by brooding silence, presented a mild puzzle for Rylen. He'd nearly asked the boy about it several times, but he'd only just gotten Jacques to stop giving him dirty looks. Asking invasive questions hadn't seemed like a good idea. Between their star-gazing sessions and sparring lessons, however, they'd be seeing a lot of one another. Rylen could be patient.

He continued moving toward Trice, eager to find out whether she merely mouthed the words or if she were singing along as well. He took up a place a little down and across the table and let his eyes wander toward her once more. He couldn't hear her, so he took a step forward. Then another.

Finally, he distinguished a soft, breathy voice in the midst of the others. Although her tone wavered slightly, her pitch was perfect, and he smiled to himself. He let his eyes linger on her profile - the joyful narrowing of her eyes, the slight bump in her long nose, the fullness of her mouth...

A breathlessness overtook him, and he quickly looked toward the children. He'd known how she affected him, of course, but the speed and intensity of his reactions never failed to astonish him.

The children came to the end of the song, and he joined in the healthy applause. Steeling himself - surely he would be better prepared now? - he turned his gaze toward her once again.

She'd already seen him. Their eyes caught and locked, and Rylen acknowledged he very well might _never_ be prepared for her. His heart pounded in his chest as her surprise at seeing him melted into a softness of expression he didn't dare parse.

"Captain... Rylen... so good to see you this morning. Can I offer you-"

"Madame Valera! Your children sing like little angels."

Rylen startled at the thick Orlesian voice booming from directly behind him. A voice he knew well. A smile split his lips, and he turned to greet his long-time friend.

"Stroud!" Rylen exclaimed, offering the other man his hand in greeting. "I'd heard you were on your way. When did you arrive?"

"Ah! Rylen. Excellent. I arrived not a half hour ago. I had thought to find a simple meal and wait for you, but when I found this place..."

Stroud made a sweeping motion with his hand, and Rylen smiled wryly in understanding. "You found the best spot in the keep and were loath to leave it."

"Precisely," Stroud replied with a grin, his thick mustache lifting and spreading with the effort.

"We wanted to sing for Monsieur Stroud!"

Clara ran up to them, her face beaming as she announced her role in the morning's chorus. Jacques approached at a slower pace, his eyes warily taking in the scene. The boy moved among them, finally taking up a position behind Clara, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders.

"It's _Warden_ Stroud, darling," Trice corrected gently.

Clara vigorously nodded her head. "Oh, yes! Warden Stroud. Do you want to see my room? I have a griffon!"

Stroud knelt down in front of Clara, his blue-gray eyes crinkled with kindness. "Do you, indeed? I am sorry I will not be able to see it right now as I must speak with Knight-Captain Rylen. Perhaps later?"

"Oh, sure!" Clara agreed happily. "And you can tell me all about griffons?"

Stroud laughed as he stood once more. "I will do my best to appease your curiosity, though I warn you, I am not an expert."

As Rylen watched the interaction, a strange sourness took up residence in his gut. The only thing that seemed to alleviate the feeling was the sudden realization that Jacques had taken up the space right beside Rylen - the same position he'd see the boy take with Trice and their friend Marcel when facing off against him. But now Rylen was in the trusted position and Jacques' wariness reserved for another.

"Clara, my love, please don't bother Warden Stroud."

Rylen startled out of his thoughts to find Trice had moved around the table and now stood on his opposite side. He was flanked by the Valeras. As if he belonged among them. As if he were a part of the family.

"Oh, she is no bother, Madame, I assure you."

Trice puffed out a laugh. "That's what you say now."

"Hey!" Clara exclaimed with a deep frown.

Trice held out her hand to Clara. "I'm teasing, love. But you know what I've told you about inviting people back to our room."

Clara crossed her arms, refusing to take her mother's hand. "'Don't.'"

"Exactly," Trice affirmed and let her hand drop to her side. "It's not safe to let strangers into our room, especially without me. Right?"

Clara's lower lip jutted out. She said nothing but did give a jerky nod. Trice then turned her attention to Stroud, and the sourness in Rylen's gut bubbled up again as he noted the warm, appreciative look in the Warden's eyes.

"So you are with us for a few days?" she inquired.

Stroud nodded. "I will be here long enough to make my report and receive word back from the advisors. Things are..." Stroud stopped and looked around at the kitchen staff who were desperately trying not to look like they were listening in... as they listened in. "I have much to report," he finally finished.

"Well, then let me get you some breakfast so you can get to it."

Trice gave them both a wide smile and bustled away to the back of the kitchen. Rylen twisted his head around to watch her go. A soft chuckle had him whipping around once more.

"So that is the way of it, then?"

Rylen didn't pretend to misunderstand Stroud's implication, but he did give a significant glance toward the children still standing beside them. Stroud nodded but gave Rylen a look that indicated he would be coming back to the topic later, and Rylen's gut roiled. The only reason for such a conversation would be to confirm or deny the availability of Trice Valera.

Stroud was interested. And Trice was indeed available. She might not wish for meaningless flings, but an interlude with a Warden held almost no risk for pregnancy, no risk of attachment, and if rumors were true, every promise of a lover with unlimited stamina. He wouldn't blame her if she made an exception for the handsome Warden.

Rylen briefly squeezed his eyes shut in a physical effort to push the unwanted thoughts away. Thankfully, Jacques' voice saved him from spiraling any further.

"Mama says you're helping the Inquisition because you believe the other Wardens are wrong. Some of them must know what's happening is wrong, too, don't you think?"

Stroud's expression turned grim, and his eyes dropped to the floor. "I hope you are right, my boy. I have wondered the same thing many a night." He met Jacques' wary gaze. "My hope is that they will come to their senses when faced with the might of the Inquisition."

At this, Jacques looked up at Rylen. "And you'll let them live? If they surrender, I mean."

"I will if I can, Jacques." Rylen set his hand on the boy's shoulder. "But the Inquisitor and Commander will have final say in the matter. I'm just here to make sure the troops stay alive long enough to get to the assault."

He smiled at Jacques, but the boy didn't smile back. Neither did he shrug away from Rylen's hand, though, so Rylen counted it a win.

"From what I know of the Inquisitor, she'll save them if she can," Rylen assured the boy.

Stroud nodded in agreement. "She is a strong but merciful leader. I think she will save the Wardens if she can. I would have assisted the Inquisition regardless of the Inquisitor's ethics, but I am comforted by what I have seen of her methods so far."

This did garner a small smile from Jacques. "I'm excited to finally see her. I've heard so much."

Trice returned in time to overhear her son and gave the men a curious glance as she handed them their breakfasts. "Who?"

"We were speaking of the Inquisitor," Stroud explained before gesturing to the plate. "Thank you for the breakfast." He then turned to the children. "And thank you for sharing your song, children. I enjoyed it immensely."

"You're welcome!" Clara exclaimed.

Jacques only nodded at Stroud, still wary, and Rylen couldn't contain his smile. Stroud turned toward Rylen, gesturing with his head toward the opposite door.

"Shall we adjourn to your office?"

Rylen nodded, patting Jacques once on the shoulder and bowing slightly to Trice. To his surprise, she gave a quick curtsey in return, but as soon as their eyes met, he understood the teasing gesture for what it was. Relief mixed with slight disappointment as he shook his head and laughed softly.

"Good day, Madame. I'll see you for the midday meal."

She threw the back of her hand to her forehead, turning her head away with dramatic flair. "We'll be bereft without your company, Captain." Then turning her alluring dark eyes to him, she clasped her hands together at her breast. "How ever will we pass the long hours until you return to us?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something, your highness," he replied with an irreverent wink.

He finally tore his gaze away from her, but her laughter followed him up the stairs toward his office. Thankfully, Stroud seemed to be occupied with eating and humming out his appreciation as he climbed, which left Rylen to gather his thoughts on their short walk.

Their first meeting after such an intense evening had gone better than he expected. And yet part of him wondered at her ability to easily fall back into good-natured teasing. He'd felt jittery around her before. Now every time their eyes met, he felt as if he'd been trampled by a rampaging druffalo. He thanked the Maker that all eyes had been on the children when he first entered the kitchen. Otherwise, someone might have witnessed his doe-eyed staring.

Perhaps she simply had more practice at subterfuge from carrying around all those secrets. The spymaster had assured him that Trice's secrets were no danger to him or the Inquisition - as long as she remained hidden. Still, he could feel the mystery eating at him. He wanted... he _needed_ to know her secrets. But more than that, he didn't want to have to dig for those secrets. He wanted her to _give_ them to him. He knew that if she'd trust him with those secrets he could find a way to help her, to give her back her life, to give her the choice to fearlessly go wherever she wanted...

Or maybe stay.

He reached his door, unlocked it and then closed it behind them. Stroud took the chair Rylen motioned toward, and the two men ate their breakfasts in silence for a few moments. Finally, Stroud looked up from a clean plate and shook his head in awe.

"It has been years since I tasted anything so divine. You are a lucky man, my friend."

"Stroud-" Rylen began in a warning tone.

"Nay, nay, I mean nothing untoward," Stroud assured, his raised hands facing palm out in a wordless apology. A split-second later, however, a wicked gleam flashed in his eyes. "But now that you have mentioned it..."

Rylen shoved a forkful of the amazing potato, ham and cheese mixture into his mouth and chewed deliberately, letting his temper cool and giving him time to come up with an answer. He swallowed, put down his fork and forced the words out despite the vaguely sick feeling it gave him to say them out loud.

"I am not her keeper, Stroud. If you wish to bed her, I suggest you take up the matter with her."

With effort, Rylen kept his eyes up and his face neutral. Stroud stared at Rylen with those shrewd, gray-blue eyes, and just when the atmosphere bordered on awkward, the Warden finally gave a curt nod.

"We'll speak of her no more, then."

Rylen frowned, but before he could ask what the Warden meant, Stroud had moved on. And what he said next had Rylen sitting up and leaning forward in his chair.

"It is getting worse, Rylen. They are speeding up the ritual. I do not know how many remain of the unbound mages, but we will need to move as soon as possible after the Commander arrives. I only hope we are not too late."

"Dammit!" Rylen sat back and shoved both hands into his hair. "Cullen should be leaving Skyhold tomorrow. I'm sure he'll do his damnedest to get our soldiers here as soon as possible, but it's not like he can carry the whole army on his back to get them here faster. Though I'm sure he would if he could." Rylen smiled wryly before lapsing into problem-solving mode. "In the meantime, can we launch a preemptive attack? Get them on the defensive and perhaps slow them down?"

Stroud shook his head. "Even without the demons, the army of Wardens gathered at Adamant is too strong for the forces you have collected here. There is little we can do until the remainder of the troops arrive... or the Wardens complete their rituals and unleash their demons upon the world... whichever comes first."

"Dammit," Rylen repeated, this time more softly. "If it comes to it, we'll fight to hold them off as long as possible, but Maker... with less than a quarter of our troops here and ready to fight... it'll be a slaughter."

Rylen thought of all those under his charge and winced at the idea of them taking on a fortress full of highly trained Wardens and demons by themselves. And there, underneath it all, was the image of Jacques looking up at the stars, of Clara dancing with excitement, of Trice smiling at him, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"All we can do is pray," Stroud intoned. "I noticed your sappers hard at work there on the plains just north of the fortress. How long will it take to move the siege equipment into place?"

"Not long. Once they've finished construction, they'll move the equipment into place. Did Mallory's agents give you the support you needed these last few weeks?"

"Indeed. Their quiet ways were appreciated after traveling so long with Hawke and her blunt attack methods. She is a magnificent fighter, but she lacks... subtlety."

"I've never met the Champion, but I heard enough tales during my time in Kirkwall and listening to Varric prattle on this last year."

"Ah, yes, the dwarf." Stroud nodded. "He featured heavily in her tales as well. I felt as though I already knew him when we finally met at the Tevinter tower all those months ago."

"I suppose so many years of friendship will do that to you."

Stroud gave Rylen a half smile in acknowledgement of their own long-standing friendship and then leaned back in his chair, weariness seeping into his expression and posture. He ran a hand down his face, his fingers sliding down the fuzzy caterpillar he called a mustache.

"You should get some rest," Rylen suggested quietly.

"I cannot. The silence only serves to exacerbate that sick song playing in my mind. This morning..." Stroud sighed, his low and gravelly voice dipping into a rasping tone. "This morning was the first time in many months I was free of it."

"Because you could focus on the merry singing of a couple of imps instead?"

Stroud chuckled. "Indeed. They are no doubt a handful for their mother, but today I felt a fleeting moment of peace. That is no small gift."

Rylen let the moment linger, his thoughts in a jumble. It had only been a few weeks since the Valeras had descended upon him, and even less than that since he'd accepted his fate and truly welcomed the family to the keep. And yet, he already couldn't imagine the place without them. The thoughts led him to wonder about another family they both knew.

"Have you been to Starkhaven since the Conclave?"

Stroud looked as if he'd come out of some kind of daze, his eyes taking a moment to focus on Rylen. "No. I have not been there these five or more years. Not since you left to assist with the relief efforts in Kirkwall just after the mage rebellion. The Wardens had been planning this for quite some time, and I left them as soon as I could safely get away. Your family still lives there, do they not?"

"Yes, they go on with their lives, playing with blocks all day and fighting amongst themselves to be king of the stonemason castle. It's as it should be."

"Have you heard from the illustrious Ironsides of Starkhaven since you came to the Inquisition?"

"Oh, aye," Rylen said with a short laugh. "Ma writes to me every other day, or so it seems. I get a note from my sister, Adelaide, now and again. The sons of the most prestigious masonry company in a city known for its architecture rarely take time to think of their baby brother. They have families of their own to worry about, and I've never been one to bear the name proudly."

"I still do not understand your aversion to your name," Stroud said with a chuckle. "Ironside is a good, solid name."

"Yes, a solid name that landed me solidly on the shit list of every Starkhaven templar recruit simply for being 'privileged' as they called it. Besides, even if my last name got me that early promotion, it didn't stick with me. By my second year as Knight-Captain, barely anyone remembered I was an Ironside."

Stroud laughed aloud at that. "I believe the fact that you out performed every templar in the Circle might have precipitated your promotion - and the jealousy - more than an old and respected name. Karsten referred to you as his 'fixer' on several occasions and even admitted once that the Circle would fall apart without you to guide it."

"Yes... well, I suppose you can chalk it up to the fact that I've never liked the idea of getting something I didn't rightly earn."

"A noble sentiment - and one I think you shared with your father."

"Perhaps he instilled the lesson a bit too well."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, both seeming lost in recollections of the way their paths had intersected over the years. Stroud had come to Starkhaven shortly after becoming a Warden in order to escape both political intrigues relating to the murder of his family as well as the painful memories associated with his home in Orlais. Rylen and Stroud had immediately become friends when the Warden stopped in to review the templar recruits, of which Rylen was one.

Although Stroud had subsequently traveled all over the Free Marches, he occasionally returned to the Circle to visit with Rylen, and eventually Rylen had introduced the Warden to his family. The Ironsides had promptly adopted Stroud as an honorary son and insisted he stay with them whenever he passed through Starkhaven.

Rylen smiled at the memory of Stroud's expression when Carrie Ironside had pulled the stoic Warden in for a motherly hug. Rylen had never wanted to be a stonemason, but he'd been proud of his family that day. Clearly, Stroud's thoughts had tracked along the same lines.

"Rylen, you will convey my thanks to your family for their hospitality over the years? They... I am grateful to them for their easy acceptance of a lost soul all those years ago."

Rylen frowned and shook his head at the implication in those words. "Jean-Marc, don't. You can do it yourself next time you see them."

Stroud pressed his lips into a thin line before forcing a wan smile. He gave Rylen a single nod of acknowledgement but said nothing further. Rylen opened his mouth to argue against the unspoken words, but a knock at the door silenced him.

"Come in!"

The door opened a crack and Kirel popped his head inside. "You said you wanted to be present for morning drills? We're about to begin, ser."

"Ah, yes. I'll be there in a moment."

Rylen stood and motioned to the door. "Should you like to show these amateurs what a former chevalier can do?"

"It would be my pleasure," the Warden affirmed with an uncharacteristic grin.

 

**

 

Rylen spied Jacques waiting at the gate before the boy saw them approaching. He shuffled back and forth nervously, bouncing up and down on his toes and wringing his hands like his mother sometimes did as he looked out the gate and into the controlled chaos of a makeshift army. He stilled and his eyes brightened when he finally observed Rylen but immediately shuttered at the sight of Warden Stroud. Rylen knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stifle the satisfaction that coursed through him at the boy's acceptance.

"Jacques, my boy, glad you could join us," Rylen said with a grin. "Ready?"

"Yesser!" Jacques exclaimed with a peppy salute.

Rylen laughed and placed a hand on the boy's upper back to lead him outside. As they approached the makeshift training area, Lieutenant Kirel approached.

"Here you are, Captain, the dwarf armor you requested." Kirel handed the package over to Rylen and then looked down at Jacques with a warm smile. "I understand now why you asked for the lightest armor possible."

Jacques frowned, and Kirel laughed. "Don't worry, young man. The Captain will whip you into shape in no time."

Kirel went back to organising the corporals for the morning drills, but Jacques' frown remained. "I know a thing or two," he muttered under his breath.

"Do you?" Rylen asked, keeping his voice light to pull the boy from his bad mood. "Let's get this armor on and see what you've got, then."

While Stroud went ahead to watch as the corporals began their training regimens, Rylen knelt in the sand and assisted Jacques with the mail, greaves, pauldrons and vambraces. They left off the plate, Rylen assuring the boy that he'd get strong enough to wear it in no time at all.

Jacques paid close attention to the way the armor fit together, but every once in a while, his eyes darted to the gates in the distance as if expecting to see someone. Rylen glanced back, seeing only the normal buzzing of soldiers and merchants around the entrance to the keep.

"Expecting someone?"

Jacques jumped a little, his eyes darting to Rylen's and then to the ground. "No, ser."

Rylen's eyes narrowed. He paused in adjusting the boy's pauldrons and settled his hands on his thighs.

"You _did_ tell your mother where you are, right? What you're doing?"

A sudden clash of metal on metal and the ferocious yells of the soldiers behind them had Jacques whirling around to watch the spectacle. Rylen sighed, his earlier joviality strangled by sense of foreboding.

"Jacques?"

"I told Mother," he responded without taking his eyes from the sparring soldiers.

Relief flooded through him, and he stood, taking in the line of both practice and real weapons stacked along the edge of the makeshift space. He hadn't considered that the boy might not tell his mother about their training. Perhaps he should have asked her first before approaching the boy?

Too late now. Besides, if she were angry with him about, she'd have let him know. No wilting flower, that one. Rylen shrugged and pushed the thoughts away, moving toward the weapon racks.

"Well, what'll it be?" Rylen asked with a sidelong glance at Jacques. "You can try your hand at the sword or we can get you started with daggers if you prefer. Daggers would probably be easier with your current size, but..."

Rylen hesitated on the question that had popped into his brain, wondering if the topic would be somehow taboo. He couldn't tip-toe around the boy forever, though.

"Was your father a big man?"

Jacques face turned a bright shade of red, and eyes that had previously been wide and excited now turned down toward the sand. "I... I dunno."

Jacques lifted his head slightly and gave Rylen a sidelong glance, perhaps to judge his reaction. It was all Rylen could do not to let his shock show through his impassive mask. The boy didn't know his own father? Surely he'd just uncovered a large piece to the Trice Valera puzzle, but without more pieces, he had no context to interpret this revelation.

"He was a sailor in the Empress' navy," Jacques added. "S'all I know."

A sailor. Perhaps one who had died in service? At least the fact that Jacques didn't remember his father made a bit more sense. However, Jacques' next words muddle things further.

"Father... I mean... the one I knew... he showed me a little bit about fighting with a sword."

"Shall we begin with a sword, then?"

Jacques nodded and moved forward to pick up a wooden practice sword as Rylen's mind raced. The father he knew... If Jacques didn't know his father, it stood to reason that Clara wasn't his full sister. Was the father he "knew" Clara's father? And what had happened to _him_?

All other thoughts dissipated as Jacques swung the sword around. He swung a bit recklessly, but his form was good. Then, the boy settled into an eerily familiar stance.

"What is this?" came Stroud's voice from afar. "You are familiar with the ways of the Chevaliers?"

Stroud strode up to them and knelt beside the boy, adjusting the bend to his arm slightly and widening the boy's stance. Stroud stood and looked the boy up and down while the sour feeling in Rylen's gut returned with a vengeance.

"Who taught you this, young man?"

Jacques slid his eyes to Stroud and then looked to Rylen as he responded. "My... father was a Chevalier, ser."

The silence dragged on, both men too stunned to respond to the boy's claim, as another puzzle piece slid into place. Chevaliers were always from noble families. For him to be the son - even the adopted son - of a chevalier would mean Trice had been with a nobleman. Rylen recalled her story from two nights ago, and his eyes widened slightly. Was Trice an Antivan _noblewoman_ on the run?

"I was also a Chevalier before I became a Warden," Stroud said. "What was your father's name? Perhaps I knew him."

Jacques relaxed out of the Chevalier ready stance, his eyes darting between Rylen and Stroud before falling to the sand. He kicked a bit of imaginary dirt, spreading sand in a small arc in front of him.

"I... I don't think Mama would want me to say. His family... they tried to do bad things to us when he died."

A thrill of elation erupted inside Rylen as yet another puzzle piece snapped in place - enough to allow him a vague understanding of the picture. The spymaster had said the Valeras weren't a threat unless discovered. Now he knew that discovery hinged on a dead Chevalier's family. He desperately wanted to ask about the "bad things" Jacques spoke of, but the boy had already closed himself off too much today. Rylen wouldn't push... at least not right now.

"No matter," Rylen announced. "You've got a good start there, but it'll take more than a fancy stance to defeat a demon. Let's get to work, shall we?"

Jacques looked up and blinked. Then, a small smile emerged. Rylen smiled in return, a strange kind of warmth blooming in his chest as he looked at the boy. Then, he ushered Jacques over to where Corporal Addison led the newest recruits through basic formations.

"You'll want to learn all these formations and practice them until you can do them in your sleep, understand?"

Jacques nodded but hesitated at the edge of the space. Rylen held back a chuckle of amusement and pulled his sword from his scabbard. Taking a step forward, he looked back at Jacques.

"Well come on, my boy. Those formations aren't going to learn themselves."

For the first time all morning, the boy's face split into a wide grin. "Yesser!"

They stood side by side, working through Addison's formations. Rylen hadn't been through basic drills in a long time, and he found the mindless practice to be oddly calming. Everything fell away as he pushed through each movement, helped Jacques with the more difficult maneuvers and just enjoyed the rush of activity.

After an hour, however, Jacques was struggling to hold up the wooden sword. A thick bead of perspiration rolled down the boy's face, and he swiped at it with his forearm. Rylen gave Corporal Addison a significant look.

"Alright rookies! You've earned a break. Get some water and be back here in ten!"

Jacques huffed out a sigh of apparent relief and didn't hesitate to take a giant swig when Rylen handed over his water skin.

"That's hard work," Jacques huffed as he swiped at another bead of sweat.

"I think that's enough for a first day," Rylen said gently. "You'll need to gradually build your strength."

Jacques nodded but seemed a bit dazed. Rylen's eyes narrowed.

"Take another drink, son."

Jacques' hand faltered slightly but then rose up to put the skin to his lips. This time, he drank until the skin was nearly dry.

"I'll get you a skin of your own for tomorrow."

Jacques broke from the skin, catching his breath after holding it to drink, and shook his head. "Can't tomorrow morning. Mama works late the next three days, so we have school in the mornings. I can... Can I come in the afternoon?"

Rylen nodded and tucked that little piece of information away for later, even as he knew he shouldn't. "Come get me when you're ready, then. Now, let's get this armor off you. We'll go back to the keep, and I'll teach you how to clean and store it properly."

Jacques nodded again, this time sneaking a glance at Rylen. The strange warmth in his chest returned, and Rylen smiled as he knelt down and helped Jacques remove the sweat-soaked armor.

"Did I..." Jacques paused, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth for a moment. "Did I do alright?"

Rylen paused and put both hands on Jacques' shoulders. "You put half these grown men and women to shame, Jacques. With a bit of practice, you'll be sparring with the best of them."

Another giant grin from Jacques. Another swell of warmth in Rylen's chest. Rylen grinned back, but as they trudged back to the keep, he wondered if he weren't setting up the boy - or himself - for disappointment.

For all his rules about not getting involved with women, he'd never thought about protecting himself from a child, especially one who'd so effortlessly wormed his way into Rylen's good graces. In a small way, he finally understood the reasons a mother might risk everything to keep her children safe... because he knew without a doubt that he'd give his life to protect not just Trice, but the whole Valera family.

He grimaced to himself and acknowledged the truth - he might just have to.

 

___________________________

 

For the full thirty-six hours after their intense moment on the battlements, she'd agonized about seeing Rylen again. After that first scalding look as her children sang in the background, however, Trice had steeled herself to pretend that she didn't feel a thing.

Pretending is also what she'd done to get through the shock of seeing a person from her dreams come to life. Warden Stroud in the flesh left her trembling in fear of what she'd seen happen to him in her nightmares, but she feared his derision and disbelief even more. After all, they were only nightmares, weren't they? No matter that she'd dreamed of him weeks before she'd ever met him.

Luckily, as the days went by, they settled into a routine of sorts. The Warden often accompanied Rylen to the kitchen, and Katlin simpered and flirted with them both shamelessly. Even the stoic Stroud laughed and smiled more often.

Everything felt a little forced, though. A little fake. Because it was.

As much as she excelled at pretending friendship, the comfortable weight of his eyes on her set her blood afire and her cheeks aflame every time. And even more than his persistent gaze, he drew her into their conversations with his humor and wit, and she couldn't resist responding in kind. It became the highlight of her day when she could coax out that full-bodied laugh, that dazzling grin. Maker's breath, but he was charming when he wanted to be.

Those three evenings she worked the kitchen without Katlin were her favorite, though. The two men stopped by at the end of her shift and stayed late, talking about anything and everything as the children played in the background. She and Warden Stroud spoke of his limited experiences in Antiva, comparing notes on Antiva City, the customs and people, while Rylen looked on with a strangely intense expression, as if he were soaking up every word she spoke.

Such intense notice should have made her nervous, but instead, she felt calm, comfortable, _safe_. His gaze imparted caring and strength... and other things they both chose to ignore, even when he moved close, leaned over her or reached around her to steal an extra bite of whatever she happened to be cooking for them.

Each day, however, became more of an effort than the last, not only because of the growing regret at what could never be between them, but also from lack of sleep. The nightmares plagued her almost every night. Her children could sleep through nearly anything, but each night was worse than the last. She worried she would eventually disturb them or, worse, hurt them. And every night, she dreading falling asleep knowing that the nightmare would force her to witness the death of a man quickly becoming a good friend.

That was her excuse, anyway, when Katlin failed to catch her attention on her first morning back on early shift.

"Oi, woman! What's the matter with you, then?"

Katlin stood in her now familiar stance - hands on her hips, blond curls bouncing with the vigorous tapping of her toe and the sad shake of her head. Trice sighed and resigned herself to yet another half truth.

"I'm not sleeping well."

A sly smile crept across Katlin's face. "That so?"

Trice narrowed her eyes in response, not liking the glint of mischief in the younger woman's eyes. "Yes. I've been having recurring nightmares. Probably from all the stress of living so close to a fortress full of demons."

Katlin's expression fell into concern. "Well that's no good. Have you tried that herbal tea Andall swears by?"

"I haven't, but-"

Katlin whirled around, and after a conversation with Andall, who was chopping onions in the back, she came back with a small tin in hand.

"Here. Take this and don't make a fuss about it. Andall swears by it. Put a teaspoon in a mug of hot water and steep for five minutes. Drink it right before bed. Got it?"

Trice sighed, loath to take anything that might hamper her tenuous control over her sanity. But the idea of a peaceful night of sleep beckoned, and she reached for the tin, placing it in her special stock of spices.

"Thank you, Katlin."

"What are friends for?" she said with a shrug.

They worked in tandem through the midday meal, and as usual, Rylen and Jean-Marc came in as they were cleaning up. Trice, however, couldn't quite keep up with their usual banter. She yawned behind her hand and instantly felt his eyes on her. She met Rylen's gaze with a tired smile. The corner of his mouth twitched in return, but his ice blue eyes radiated concern.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked in a low tone as Katlin and Jean-Marc went on talking at the other end of the table. "You've got the attention span of that capricious five-year-old of yours today."

She shrugged, smiling a little at his teasing - mostly at the accuracy of the comparison. "Today was my first early morning in a few days, so I'm a little tired. I have the evening off, though, so I'll be able to rest."

"You do that," he affirmed with a lopsided smile. "Can't have her highness falling asleep in her pudding, can we?"

Without warning, his fingers brushed across her cheek to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She sucked in a quiet breath at the electric feel of his fingertips caressing sensitive skin. His eyes widened slightly, and he dropped his hand.

"Apologies. I'm not sure why I..." He glanced away from her and puffed out a breath of wry amusement. "Well, I know why, but I'm sorry for the blunder nonetheless. I don't mean to make this more difficult."

She swallowed hard, closed her eyes and willed away the memories that often kept her warm even in his absences - his arm wrapped around her, his hand caressing her jaw, his mouth pressing warm, sensual kisses all over her face. He'd kissed her skin as if it were a precious thing, as if she were something delicate and desirable. What would it be like to have that kind of simple, comfortable intimacy that he could reach out and touch her without guilt?

Wonderful. It would be wonderful. And she could never have it.

The bitterness rose up so strongly she had to clench her fists to her sides to keep from screaming at the unfairness of it all. Why did he have to be so... not perfect, necessarily, but so right for _her_. He appreciated her humor. He understood her moods almost better than she did. It was torture to be so close to him but not able to be _with_ him. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath.

"You don't," she rasped, the painful musings spurring her into blunt honesty. "I... I would rather have those small moments than nothing at all."

The intensity in his expression would have frightened her if she hadn't felt the answering call in her own breast. He pulled in a slow breath and nodded.

"Aye," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her heart nearly exploded in her chest. Since that night on the battlements, she'd tried not to think about his words, his tenderness, his straightforwardness about those confusing feelings she would have... _had_... attempted to bury. But now the words, the feelings, the _joy_ , came back to her in a rush and tempted her to throw caution to the wind.

"Rylen... I-"

"Well, you two are awfully secretive over there," Katlin said in a loud voice. "What could you have to talk about so quiet like?"

Trice scrambled for an excuse, but the sleep-stealing nightmares had shredded her usual wit to pieces. She turned away from Rylen to face Katlin's knowing gaze and Jean-Marc's stoic expression marred by a small smile.

"Mother, are you nearly done? Clara is being annoying, and I don't think I can take it anymore."

Jacques' exasperated voice from the doorway muddled her further, and she put a hand to her forehead. "Yes. Yes, I'll be there in a moment."

Jacques, a little dirtier than she remembered him being that morning, saluted to Rylen before heading back down the hall to their rooms. She stared after her son, her brain struggling to sort through events and come up with the next appropriate action. A warm hand at her elbow elicited a thrill followed by a sharp sting behind her eyes, but she blinked rapidly to clear away any extra moisture.

"I'm headed to my quarters for a bit," came the voice at her side. "I can walk you."

"Be careful, there, Captain," Katlin admonished. "She's not been sleeping well. Might fall asleep on you on her way down the stairs."

Trice opened her eyes wide and then narrowed them at Katlin in perceived betrayal. As usual, Katlin only laughed at her.

"Oh, don't give me those squinty eyes! I take care of my friends - whether they like it or not." She plopped the tin of tea in Trice's hand. "Don't be forgetting this."

Trice pocketed the tin with a grimace and a laugh. "Thank you, Katlin. You sure you'll be alright to finish up?"

"Oh, there isn't much left," Katlin said with a wave of dismissal. She then turned and lightly punched Jean-Marc in the arm. "And I've got a strapping Warden here to help me out if I need it, don't I?"

The Warden in question executed a quick bow. "I am at your service, mademoiselle."

"Ooo, I like that. Come over here and get something down from the high shelf for me."

Jean-Marc frowned in confusion. "What is it you need?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Katlin responded in a singsongy tone as she lead him toward the back of the kitchen, hips swaying and curls bouncing. "Anything will do."

A quiet chuckle at her side drew Trice's attention, and she realized Rylen had never taken his hand from her elbow. The warmth of his palm cupping her arm seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, and she felt the constant simmer of awareness flare up between them. Before she could do anything embarrassing, such as lean into his strength in the hopes that he'd hold her while she slept, she started toward the door. He easily fell in step beside her.

"Why aren't you sleeping well?" he asked quietly.

Trice briefly closed her eyes. "Just... some nightmares. They started when I arrived here, and lack of sleep is beginning to take its toll, I think."

"That's what the tin is for, then?"

"What? Oh, yes. It's a sleep aid." Trice patted the tin in her pocket and frowned. "At least, I think that's what it's supposed to do. A relaxing tea at the least."

He nodded as they passed through the door and into the hallway, and then his hand dropped from her elbow. She only had a moment to mourn the loss, however, before his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her up against his side. Her breathing turned shallow, and her arm unconsciously rose up to wrap itself around his waist in return. He looked down at her with a smug grin.

"Can't have you falling down those steps," he said by way of explanation.

She shouldn't allow the liberty, but in her current state, she had no willpower to fight her own desires. She _wanted_ to be close to him. So she smiled back and then leaned into him, her cheek finding the crook of his shoulder. Her fingers at his waist discreetly explored the shape of his body under the layer of chainmail, the muscles hard and unyielding under the metal, and she sighed softly at the thought of what it might feel like with no layers between them.

They started down the stairs, and she closed her eyes, soaking in the feel of him pressed against her, the warmth of his hand gripping her hip, the little snaps and pops of awareness that sparkled over her skin in every place they touched. Her body buzzed with excitement, wrapped in a warm cocoon of his nearness, and half-way down the stairs, her other hand betrayed her by rising up to rest firmly over his heart.

His steps faltered, and they paused there in the middle of the dim stairwell. He looked down at her, that intense expression melting her insides into a gooey mess, as he carefully covered her hand with his own. His fingers curled around her hand and held it in place for a moment before slowly raising her palm to his lips.

His eyes fluttered closed, and the sight of his plush lips pressing into her palm sent another wave of heat through her, this time straight between her thighs. He brushed those lips against the sensitive skin of her palm and then moved to the thin skin of her inner wrist.

Her skin prickled and snapped with the electricity of his touch. A small, needy whimper escaped her throat, but she didn't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed. In return, he groaned softly into her palm, his breath a hot and urgent slide against her skin.

"Lass, you're turnin' me inside out..."

She pressed her fingers against his cheek, the prickle of his scruff overwhelming her already overloaded senses. A voice of warning screamed at her from a distance, telling her to stop before things went too far. But they'd already gone too far, hadn't they? No matter how disciplined she'd been, she'd fallen for him anyway. What difference would a kiss make now? She'd never felt this kind of need in her life, so all-consuming and mind-numbing.

"Rylen, _please_..." she gasped.

Her fingers slid into the thick hair at the nape of his neck and pulled gently. He opened desperate eyes and searched her face, looking for the truth of the moment. As soon as his eyes lowered to stare at her lips, she knew he'd found whatever he'd been looking for. His head bent toward hers, and he tilted just slightly to the left as their uneven breaths mingled between them.

She first felt the touch and then the slide of his nose against hers. Every pore in her body screamed for it, her breathing nearly stopping in anticipation of that first brush of lips, that first jolt of electric want she knew awaited them.

"Mama?"

Trice jerked back at the same moment Rylen did, and a moment later they were clinging to one another, trying not to fall down the narrow stairs. When she finally regained her balance, she whipped her head to the bottom of the stairs to find a wide-eyed Jacques staring up at them.

_Oh, Maker. Oh Maker, no._

"Jacques, darling," she choked out, "I'll be there in a moment."

The child's gaze darted between them for a few long seconds, and then, wonder of wonders, a slow smile spread across his face.

"OK."

He disappeared from view, and she heard a door click shut a moment later. She stared after him, her mind racing with the possibilities. Had he not understood the situation? Or, perhaps more concerning, he'd understood the situation and _approved_ of it, which would mean he'd already come to think of Rylen too fondly. She took a step back, leaned against the stairwell wall and covered her face with her hands.

"I'm sorry, Rylen," she mumbled through her fingers. "I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. I know what I should do, but you... being around you confuses me."

Instead of the frustration she'd anticipated, she heard him chuckle softly. "I know the feeling, lass."

She dropped her hands to her sides, slouching against the wall heavily. He'd taken up position against the opposite wall, and when their eyes met, she found herself comforted by the bewildered expression on his face. At least they were in this together.

"So... what should we do?"

Rylen sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "If I were on the outside looking in, the answer would be easy."

"Oh?"

He gave her a humorless smile. "Avoid each other's company as much as possible."

She let out an involuntary whimper of protest, and his smile took on a sad quality. "Yes, I know that feeling, too." He pushed off the wall, and she heard him swallow as he took a step toward her. "I don't want to hurt you, Trice. I can't guarantee I'll come through this assault. And there are... _other_ things in my life that would make this... difficult."

She closed her eyes against the horrible images that flooded her mind at his words, but the vivid nightmares haunting her sleep left her with plenty to work with. The images began to flash in that horrifically familiar way, and she pressed her palms into her eyes and took deep, calming breaths to fight off the episode.

"Are you alright, love?"

The flashes crowding her overwrought mind shattered like glass at those words spoken with such concern - and that one word spoken with such ease and familiarity. That one word that felt and sounded so right. And yet so wrong.

She dropped her arms again, and before she could talk herself out of it, she took two steps forward, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head in his metal-covered chest. His arms came around her immediately.

"There are _so many things_ in my life that make this impossible," she mumbled into his chest.

He huffed out a dry laugh. "At least we have that in common."

"We have many things in common," she whispered. Then, a few moments later in a louder voice, "We have three weeks until the assault?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Then we'll keep on as we are for three more weeks," she said with more conviction than she felt.

"And after-" Rylen's voice broke on the word. He cleared his throat and started again. "And after the assault?"

She fought back the tears, letting the question hang between them. She wanted to promise him everything. She wanted to throw herself at his feet.

"Just come back to me, Rylen," she rasped as she squeezed him tighter and pressed her eyes closed. "You come back to me, and I promise we'll figure things out."

 

**

 

Trice went through the motions of classwork, allowed the children time to run and play on the battlements and finally followed them back to the room. Instead of putting Clara to bed and staying up to read with Jacques, however, she hastily changed into her nightgown and drank down a mug of the special tea.

"You can stay up for another hour, Jacques, but no later."

"Yes, Mother," he mumbled from the pages of his latest gift from Skyhold, a thick tome of the history of Antiva.

He'd been unnaturally quiet and focused during lessons in the past few days, and she'd chalked it up to him processing the news about his father. But tonight he looked almost... worn out. Add to that the couple hours each day he'd begged off kitchen duty to have "some time to himself," and Trice couldn't help being suspicious.

"What did you do today while you were off by yourself?"

Jacques didn't lift his head. "Nothin' much."

"You aren't bothering anyone or going places you shouldn't, are you?"

Jacques finally raised his head and rolled his eyes at her. "No, Mother."

Trice narrowed her eyes at him, but he held her gaze. She reluctantly nodded.

"Well, whatever you're doing, you'll need to put it on hold tomorrow. One of the prep cooks is sick, so I need both you and Clara helping out in the kitchen."

"What? No!"

Trice jerked back at the adamant denial. He'd never had a problem with helping her in the kitchen before, but now, Jacques burst out of his chair, positively seething. Her shock turned to anger as his voice rose into a near yell.

"I only ask for an hour, maybe two!" He pointed an accusing finger at his sister's slumbering form across the room. "Just to get away from _her_ for once. And now I can't even have that?"

"Jacques," she bit out in a low, angry tone, "lower your voice at once. You'll wake your sister. And it's only for one day. What's so important that you can't miss one day?"

"Nothing! It's just time without her." His face melted into beseeching expression. "Please, Mother. Just an hour."

Trice shook her head, the seed of suspicion blooming into near certainty. The boy was up to something.

"Not tomorrow, Jacques."

"But I have to... ugh!"

He fell heavily back into his chair and crossed his arms in an impressive sulk. Trice stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile this little monster with the helpful boy of the past few months. What had happened that-

She closed her eyes and flashed back to that moment on the stairs. Jacques had smiled at them, but had that only been a nervous reaction? He hadn't mentioned it this afternoon, and Trice felt so scatterbrained with lack of sleep that she hadn't wanted to bring it up, either.

The entire situation left her jittery and confused. She'd made Rylen a promise that she might not be able to keep, especially after he knew everything about her. Could she do it? Trust him to keep her secrets?

She wanted to, but even Jerome had distrusted her visions or dismissed them as unimportant. Until her revelation with Rozellene, she'd mostly done the same. But if her visions really were portents of the future, could she afford to continue ignoring them? And were the nightmares extensions of the same visions? If so... she needed to warn Stroud before he left tomorrow that she'd dreamed a horrible end for him - one that reduced her to sobbing hysteria each time she wrenched awake.

Looking over at her son huffing his displeasure, she fought off the despair. She simply needed sleep, and the tea had gotten her halfway there. She fought to keep her eyes open and called out softly.

"Jacques, come here, please."

He hesitated a long moment before huffing over and flopping down where she'd patted the edge of her bed. He refused to look at her, the frown etching deep lines of displeasure in his forehead.

"Jacques, is this only about your time to yourself tomorrow?" He shrugged, and Trice prayed for patience and courage as she softly asked, "Is something else bothering you? Maybe something you saw earlier this afternoon?"

Jacques finally looked at her, his frown still in place but confusion in his eyes. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean..." She cleared her throat, her cheeks turning hot. "I mean when you saw me and Captain Rylen on the stairs."

His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "When he was helping you down the stairs?"

Relief poured through her. "Yes, that was..."

"Why was he holding you like that?"

Her heart stuttered to a halt before racing off without her. She gripped the blanket and bit her lip, scrambling for something to say. Too bad what came out was a bald-faced lie even a ten-year-old boy could see through.

"He was making sure I didn't fall."

Jacques gave her a "get real" look. She grimaced.

"Well, we were... we were talking and then..."

"It looked like he was trying to..." Jacques made a face and gave Trice a sidelong glance as he whispered, "Like he was gonna kiss you."

She closed her eyes and screwed up her face before opening one eye to utter an apologetic, "Yeah."

Jacques scrunched his nose in disgust but said nothing else. He took a moment to process the information, and she waited, knowing he needed the time to suss out how he felt about it. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and scooted a little closer to her.

"So... you really do like him now?"

 _Andraste guide me._ If she admitted to liking Rylen, wouldn't that be tentative approval for Jacques to like Rylen, too? And what would it do to her dear, sweet boy if Rylen didn't come back from this assault? She shook her head.

"We are friends, Jacques. That's all."

"Friends who kiss?" he asked skeptically.

She cleared her throat. "Yes... well, no... for now... I guess. It's complicated, darling."

"Sounds like too much work to me."

Trice laughed wanly. "It can be, yes. But just because I'm friends with Rylen doesn't mean you have to be."

"I definitely don't want to be your kind of friends with him!"

Trice, already halfway hysterical with sleep deprivation, giggled madly behind her hand, and Jacques graced her with a reluctant grin. The grin fell into a pensive expression, and he finally shrugged.

"I like him well enough, I guess," Jacques admitted. "He's... he's not like what I thought at first. He was mean to you when we got here, but now he's nice... to all of us."

She held out her arms to Jacques, and he rolled his eyes before settling in for a long hug. Trice let her heavy eyelids slide closed as she murmured to Jacques' hair.

"He's a kind man, but he's also a soldier, darling. His job is very dangerous, especially with the coming assault on the Warden fortress. He could..." She swallowed around her suddenly tight throat. "He could leave us any time. You understand that, right?"

"Mmm-hmm," Jacques hummed in response. "He could die just like Father. That's what you mean."

The lump in her throat swelled, and tears pricked at her eyes. "Yes, that's just what I mean."

"I get it," he said in that small, sad voice she hated so much.

She nodded, afraid any words would crack and break before they could pass over her lips. After another few minutes, Jacques lifted his head, his voice thankfully back to normal.

"I guess one morning without a free hour won't be so awful."

Trice smiled at him and snuggled closer. "Good."

 

**

 

_The sickly green sky filled her vision as she fell and fell and fell. She slammed into hard rock, bones creaking in protest, muscles bunching and screaming at the abuse. The now-familiar voice spoke into the stillness._

_"Ah, my little seer, you've come again tonight. What new fears do you have for me?"_

_The deep voice echoed through the close, stagnant air. Trice scrambled to her feet, her limbs unwieldy under her and throbbing with the pain of the fall. She looked down, and her heart raced faster at the familiar and yet unfamiliar sight - thin, pale fingers, lithe legs and arms, battle armor like she'd never seen before, and a tingle under her skin, like a thunderstorm waiting to break._

_"Inquisitor!"_

_Trice spun around to see Stroud and a lovely, short-haired blond woman looking at her from the wrong angle. A dwarf, a bald elf and a stern woman ran up to Trice, their words blurring together as Trice turned toward their escape._

_She knew this dream. It came to her every night. And it always ended the same._

_They fought, magic thrumming up and out of Trice like a wellspring of unending destruction._

_They fought, Stroud expertly slicing his way through the demons and shades, the blond woman and the stern woman at his back while the rest of them stayed away, fighting from a distance._

_They fought, the giant demon hovering in the background before moving forward to strike at them._

_The rocks hung suspended in the air, and she could feel the horror clawing at her. If only she could wake up, she wouldn't have to see it._

_"Such vivid dreams you have, little seer. Will you allow me to see the end this time?"_

_The rocks began to morph, to close in. She saw them, Stroud and the blond woman, looking to her. Each night was the same. Stroud. Stroud. Stroud must stay._

_A giant claw burst through Stroud's chest, his pained blue-gray eyes locking with hers for a moment before falling dark. Blood splattered over her armor, her face, her hair, and she screamed a scream of horror, of loss._

_The rocks fell around her, threatening to crush her. She fell with them to her knees, her nails scraping across her chest to rid herself of his blood. Oh, Maker, his blood!_

 

Trice sat up with a short cry of horror, and then slumped back into her bed as the sobs wracked her body. She drew in deep breaths to control the urge to vomit, but the walls were too close. She couldn't get enough air.

Another night, another nightmare. Unlike the other nights, however, a look to the window revealed the early signs of dawn in the Approach. Trice closed her eyes, wiping at her eyes and nose futilely as the tears continued to flow, and thanked the Maker for small favors. She'd finally managed a full night of sleep, even if she had been forced through the horror yet again.

Trice dressed quietly and crept out to the battlements. She just needed a moment of open air.

The morning sky held all the promise and beauty of a new day, but Trice couldn't see it. She sucked in breath after breath of cool morning air, trying to rid herself of the images, rid herself of the feeling of Jean-Marc's blood on her skin.

How could she know for sure, though? They were nightmares. Many people had recurring nightmares. And even if it were a portent, who would believe it? Even she couldn't say which parts of the nightmare might be real or fabricated. But why would she fixate on Jean-Marc - and before she'd even met him - if he weren't in some kind of danger?

She walked up and down the length of the wall several times before the voice of the man himself pulled her from her depressive musings.

"You seem distressed this morning."

She sucked in a breath and turned toward him. The fear pressed down, suffocating her, as she took in his familiar features. The claw, the blood, the glaze of death in his eyes... He would leave this morning for another scouting mission. He likely wouldn't return until the Inquisitor arrived to lead the troops into battle.

Filled with equal parts determination and desperation, she strode over and took hold of his arm. He might think her mad, but she couldn't remain silent.

"Jean-Marc, I... I've had a terrible nightmare. Every night since I arrived here - before I even met you - I dreamt of your death. I... I think it's in the Fade. Or something like it. Someplace strange and filled with demons. I don't know, but it's you and a blonde warrior woman together, and-"

"Trice, calm yourself," Jean-Marc soothed as he extricated himself from her grasp to rub his hands up and down her arms. "I know of the danger awaiting us. I face it willingly."

Trice shook her head, grasping at his chest plate. "No, you don't understand! It's not just a feeling. It's... it's real! The demon's claw through your chest... Oh, Maker, so much blood..."

Jean-Marc made a shushing noise and drew her into an embrace. "Truly, Trice. Do not upset yourself. If that is my fate, I welcome it."

She pulled back to look up into his face. "You... you believe me?"

Jean-Marc's hand rose up to brush away tears she didn't realize she'd shed. "I have many dreams. Some of them foretell events of the future or reveal events in the present. Being connected to the Darkspawn has advantages to go along with the disadvantages. Perhaps you are not a Warden, but I know better than to disregard a warning, no matter from whence it comes. I will try to be wary of demons, but... there will be many demons in Adamant Fortress."

Trice nodded and gripped harder at the cold breast plate under her fingers. She'd done all she could for now. Unless the dream revealed more about how they came to be in that rocky, demon-infested place or how everything really ended, she had nothing else to give.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Trice's heart lunged into her throat, and she quickly pulled away from Jean-Marc. As she'd feared, the look in Rylen's face when she turned to him reflected anger and hurt, but he quickly masked the expression and turned his glare to Jean-Marc.

"Nothing of import," Jean-Marc explained. "Trice was telling me of the nightmare that woke her early this morning."

Trice watched the tick of the muscle in Rylen's jaw, and sighed in defeat. He avoided her gaze, and she felt a spark of anger mix with the defeat. Why did he automatically think the worst of the situation? Of her? Although, she could understand why it might not seem all that innocent from the outside looking in. She looked to Jean-Marc instead, appealing to him with her eyes as she spoke the most generic words she could.

"You will be careful?"

He bowed in farewell. "As much as is possible. Until we meet again, Trice."

Rylen still avoided her gaze, so with a final look and farewell to Warden Jean-Marc Stroud, she turned on her heel and headed toward the kitchen. After all, hungry soldiers didn't care if their chefs were an emotional wreck, did they? She had a breakfast to prepare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I am not necessarily participating in NANOWRIMO, but I AM going to try to write at least a little bit a day. I have the next few scenes planned out for this story, so I hope it won't take too long to get them written out.
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comments. :)


	16. New threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are rocky between Rylen and Trice, but Rylen and Jacques continue to grow closer... even as Rylen wonders if he's made a terrible mistake.

She should have stayed. She should have tried to explain.

Trice whisked violently at the batter, letting the crush of anxiety fuel her motions. Rylen hadn't shown up for breakfast. The last night they were all together, he and Jean-Marc had talked of riding out so Rylen could check on the sappers' progress in person. She shouldn't read into his non-appearance, but her overactive nerves made it difficult to stay grounded. What had Jean-Marc told Rylen? Did he think her unhinged or delusional? Would he try to take her children?

The batter nearly sloshed over the side of the bowl with the vigor of her stirring, so she let the bowl drop to the table with a thud. How could she have been so careless? Faced with Jean-Marc's possible death and the sharp memory of his blood dripping down her face, she'd confided in the Warden. And what good had it done? She'd endangered herself for nothing.

"For _nothing_!" she hissed under her breath as she grabbed the sheet pan and viciously scraped the batter into it.

Katlin stood on the opposite side of the table humming merrily during their regular midday meal prep. The melody sawed at Trice's frayed nerves, so she took a deep breath and hurried away to place the pan in the oven. Sweat beaded at her hairline, and she swiped at it with her forearm, sure she'd just smeared flour all over her face.

She didn't care. She'd ruined everything. The panic attack lurking at the edges of her mind, ghosting in her peripheral vision, tingling at the tips of her fingers, nearly surged to life before receding at the voice behind her.

"You're a sly one, you know that?"

Trice eyed Katlin as the other woman placed her sheet pan in the oven. "I don't know what you mean."

"All this time claiming you don't want the Captain for yourself, when it's clear as daylight you're mad for him."

Trice gritted her teeth to keep the venom inside. They walked back to the table to start up another batch of batter, giving Trice time to control her response.

"Katlin, I appreciate your friendship, but this is one area I hope you won't meddle. There are... complicating circumstances."

"Ain't there always, though? I could see the sparks flying off the two of you a mile away. Almost got blinded a few times."

Trice grimaced to herself. Who knew what he thought of her now? Even if Jean-Marc hadn't explained about the nightmares - especially if he hadn't - Rylen had caught them in an embrace.

She pushed the thought away. Rylen's jealousy was the least of her problems. More than anything, she needed to know what he thought of her... gift. Or curse, really.

"Aren't you upset with me?" Trice asked in an attempt to shift the conversation. "I thought you'd set your sights on the captain."

Katlin laughed. "Well, of course, I'd want him if he wanted me back. But from the start, he's only had eyes for you. I knew weeks ago that all my pretty words and fluttering eyelashes would come to nothing."

Trice frowned and sought Katlin's face for confirmation. The woman indeed looked just as jovial as ever.

"And anyway, I've moved on to greener pastures as they say. Snagged me a lieutenant who's absolutely smitten with me."

Trice's eyes widened, her own problems falling to the background at this little revelation. "Surely not Kirel?"

Katlin made face like she'd sucked on a lemon. "Ugh, no. He's nice, but he's got his britches in a bind more often than not. I don't think I could untangle 'em fast enough before he'd gone and got himself all worked up again about something else."

"Then..." Trice's eyes widened further. "Esthiel?"

Katlin gave a satisfied purr. The woman actually _purred_.

"Mmmhmmm... just thinking about all those muscles gets me bothered and bewildered."

"But isn't she being transferred to somewhere in the Dales?" Trice asked gently.

Katlin's face fell. "Hmmph... Yes. But she'll be here through the assault, so we'll have that time together anyway. Live life to the fullest while you can, I say."

"Well, I'm happy for you, Katlin."

"Thanks! I'm happy, too! Sometimes several times a night."

Katlin winked, her curls bouncing in her exuberance, and Trice couldn't fight the upward curve of the corners of her mouth. Perhaps she should take a lesson from Katlin. Stewing over things would do her no good and only make her unhappy before she truly had reason to be.

Trice's anxiety fought back, flaring up to remind her of all the things that could go wrong. She pushed against it, tucking it away as best she could. As close as she and Rylen had become, she really should give him the benefit of the doubt that he'd understand.

"So, I learned something last night," Katlin said in a hushed tone.

"Do I want to know?"

"This you do," Katlin replied with confidence. She leaned forward and whispered, "The Chevaliers are coming to help with the assault!"

Trice's hands convulsed around the egg in her hand, cracking it open in her palm. She quickly dropped the egg into the bowl and then cursed soundly as she picked out the bits of shell. At least she had an excuse not to look at Katlin as she worked.

"All of them?" she asked into the bowl, grateful she'd managed to keep her voice from wavering.

"Oh no, not all. Just one unit from southern Orlais. But still... Chevaliers! If they're all like that beefcake of a Warden, I'll take two, please and thank ye kindly."

Trice frowned. "I thought..."

"Oh, I just mean as eye candy, of course!" Katlin clarified. "A girl can look, can't she?"

"Obviously," Trice responded as lightly as she could.

Inside, however, her anxiety had broken through all boundaries, surging upward and bringing the panic along with it. She felt her throat closing and whirled away from the table, leaving her batter unfinished.

"I... I need a moment, Katlin. Just a moment. I'll be right back."

She made a motion for Jacques and Clara to stay where they were peeling potatoes while she flew out of the kitchen, down the stairs and to her desk. She pulled out a piece of parchment, scribbled a few lines and then sealed the letter. Hurrying down the hallway, her mind raced in a frantic carousel of emotion.

In her three years with Jerome, she'd met countless Chevaliers - at his home in town, at parties and soirees, and even in the street as she'd strolled around the city on his arm. For three years, she'd been a part of that life, and though she doubted many of them would remember or care about her - a baroness' disinherited granddaughter - it only took one to remember, to mention it to a friend, to reach the ear of Lady Rousseau.

Maker, when would it end? Would she ever truly be safe? All her earlier anxiety seemed trivial compared to this new threat. Praise Andraste that she'd used a fake name. Perhaps none of them would ever come to the kitchens. Perhaps, even better, she had never met any of them in the first place.

She had to be as prepared as possible, though. She needed names.

Emerging on the outer wall, she took a quick right and curved around to the tower where she took all her letters for Nel and Marcel. She felt weak and jittery after the burst of panic, but Mallory had always been kind to her before. She felt confident he would get her letter to Skyhold as quickly as he could. His door was open, so she knocked lightly and tried to collect herself.

"Come in, Trice." Mallory stood from his desk as she entered and gave her a quick bow. "Another letter for Skyhold?"

She handed him the letter and took a pace back. "It's... somewhat urgent if you have anything going today... if possible."

Mallory, a short man with salt and pepper hair and dark eyes, stood silent for a moment, just looking at her. His eyes flicked to the window, clearly judging the time of day, and then narrowed slightly as they landed on her once more. She shuffled on her feet but didn't break eye contact.

"You know that I read everything that comes and goes from here?" he said softly.

Trice bit her lip. She'd suspected as much but never had confirmation. Still, she nodded.

"Then you'll forgive me if I go head and ask if this is Inquisition critical or merely personally urgent."

She hesitated. For the first time, Trice wondered how much Mallory actually knew, how much Marcel had been forced to reveal in order to arrange her placement in this keep. In a way, she supposed it could be important to the Inquisition's political situation, especially if Lady Rousseau became involved.

"It's possible that this development could indirectly affect the Inquisition in The Game."

Mallory nodded, and without further ado, he broke the seal and read her letter right in front of her. Heat flared across her cheeks, but she remained still, waiting for him to finish the badly scrawled lines, waiting for him to turn an indulgent eye toward her and pat her on the head for her paranoia. Instead, he read through the lines with increasing intensity - once, then twice - before pinning her with his gaze.

"I would rather not send this, if you don't mind."

Before she could object, he held the letter over the candle on his desk, and she watched in muted astonishment as the letter crinkled and blackened to ash. When the flames reached his fingers, he let the letter flutter to the stone floor, the flames eating up the paper as it fell, and then stomped the ashes to oblivion. He looked up and smiled.

"Try not to worry. I understand your desire to reach out to your friends, but your situation is best handled by as few people as possible. Our ravens are quick and adept, but they can be intercepted."

"So..." Trice paused, blinked and continued in a dazed tone, "you... you _know_?"

"All about Lady Rousseau, yes," he affirmed easily.

Dumbstruck, she could only stand and stare at him for a long moment, her brain stuttering to a stop at the implications. They knew! And they allowed her to stay, even knowing the danger she presented!

"Does... does anyone else know?" she finally managed.

He shook his head. "No one in the keep knows but me. Sister Leliana only told the captain that you must remain undiscovered. She thought the Approach a better place than most to keep away the nosy Orlesians. Plus..." Mallory paused and shrugged. "We needed a cook."

"I... th-thank you," she murmured breathlessly. "I honestly don't know what to say."

"You needn't say anything."

"But... the risk the Inquisition takes by harboring me-"

"It only becomes risky if you are discovered. Keeping your presence a secret is far easier than dealing with uptight Orlesians, as I'm sure you know." He smiled again. "Besides, I believe everyone here would agree that it's well worth the risk to keep you here and cooking for us."

Trice flushed, this time in awkward pleasure, at his compliment. "Well, thank you nonetheless. I would like... may I tell the captain the details?"

Mallory shrugged. "If you wish."

He sat back down, clearly finished with their talk. She exited the tower in a daze, still processing the turn of events.

They knew. They had hired her, kept her secret, and actively worked to maintain her cover. And unlike her previous situations, the Inquisition actually had the power to foil the machinations of people such as Lady Rousseau.

Trice absently wandered toward the kitchen, her thoughts spinning out of control as she tried to piece together the strange feeling gripping her. It roiled, not unpleasantly, in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't yet parse the sensation. It held her in thrall, however, growing and building in the echo of her footsteps down that long corridor to the kitchens. Her thoughts settled more heavily with each step, and she reached into that feeling, looking for something familiar.

Trice stopped short and then stumbled into the wall to hold up a body trembling from unspeakable relief and profound gratitude as recognition of that elusive feeling slammed into her.

Hope. She had hope. To be free. To live unafraid.

_Andraste be praised. I'm not alone in this anymore._

 

**

 

Trice spent the remainder of that day and most of the following finalizing her plans for Jacques' birthday. The entire kitchen staff had pitched in, and Katlin had offered bake the cake that night after the evening meal in order to keep it a surprise. Trice would then come in extra early tomorrow morning to ice the cake the way she knew Jacques liked.

Despite her moment of self pity on the battlements with Rylen, she'd resolved to do everything she could to make Jacques' day the best it could be. With the help of her new friends, she felt oddly positive about the makeshift party they'd thrown together.

In fact, since her conversation with Mallory, Trice felt like a new woman. She still worried about Rylen's reaction to her dreams, of course, but she no longer carried the fear of losing her family that had burdened her for so long. The might of the Inquisition at her back had soothed that fear and drained its power.

By the time she put Clara to bed, Trice had enough energy left to drink a mug of tea and crawl into her own bed. The tea had done wonders, and she'd even made it through the previous night with no bad dreams at all.

"Jacques-"

"I know, Mother. One hour."

"Be sure to wash yourself before you go to sleep. You've been rather dirtier than normal this past week."

She tried not to sound as if she were fishing for information - which she was, of course. Jacques, however, simply mumbled his acquiescence into his book without even bothering to look up. She sighed, blew out the candle beside her bed and settled in the for the night.

When she woke again, dawn had barely begun to creep across the night sky. She dressed quickly and quietly, braided her hair and coiled it around her head. The coolness of the keep had her grabbing her wrap for warmth. Just before she slipped out the door, she silently pulled out a wrapped parcel and left it on the table closest to Jacques' bed.

Trice pulled the door closed behind her and carefully locked it. She turned and nearly ruined all her hard work by screaming at the sight of a hulking figure directly in front of her. She stifled the yelp at the last minute, but her awkward flailing gave her away.

"Morning, ma'am," the figure murmured. "Sorry to frighten you."

Trice pressed a hand to her galloping heart, as if the pressure could somehow slow it down. Peering up at the figure, she recognized him as a soldier in Corporal Soren's unit, one of the groups that had already been at the keep when she arrived.

"What... what are you doing out here?" she said as quietly as possible.

"Captain posted a watch on your door two days ago, ma'am."

"Posted a... whatever for?"

The young man shuffled slightly, as if embarrassed. "Just said to protect you in particular from anything that seemed... odd. That's all I know."

Trice shook her head, baffled by the unexpected discovery that Rylen had posted a watch at her door. Was he protecting her... or the keep? Did he think her a danger to others?

She felt as though she should be angry, but in truth, she was too bewildered to be indignant. And a small part of her appreciated the care behind gesture, even though he should have spoken with her about it first.

"Well, I'm up now," she finally responded. "No further need for protection."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, sounding slightly suspicious.

Trice smirked and held up her forearm to give it a quick pinch. "I promise I'm awake and can readily take care of myself. Are you hungry?"

A half smile crept onto the rather beefy young man's face. "Always, ma'am."

"Come with me, then. I'll fix you something to eat, and then you can have a few hours to yourself. I won't tell the captain."

"If you insist, ma'am," he replied as the other half of his smile appeared.

She led him up the stairs and fixed him a quick scramble of eggs while heating some left over bread on the stove. She piled a plate high with the eggs, slathered the bread with butter and jam and handed off the plate.

While he devoured the meal, Trice pulled out the cakes Katlin had baked for her as well as the butter and powdered sugar. She whipped up a batch of frosting and dropped in a bit of concentrated blueberry juice. Repeating the process, she ended up with purplish blue, yellow and white batches of frosting. Then, she pulled out her decorating tools and got to work, barely noting the mumbled thanks and departure of her watcher.

She'd always loved all forms of cooking, but this... this was her forte, her niche. She loved the intricacies of desserts, both in flavor and in presentation. A single bite could hold the sweet and sour of fruit, the subtle smoothness of a cream filling, the rich and robust berry undertones of cocoa or any number of other subtle flavors bursting open on the tongue. And the complexity of textures - flakey, crumbly, fluffy, dense - from simple combinations of flour and butter with maybe some milk and sugar created a magnificent palate on which she could build literal castles of intricately woven icing or molded almond paste or piped frosting. The possibilities were endless.

Despite her lingering exhaustion from too many nights cut short by nightmares, she quickly lost herself in the process of building Jacques' masterpiece. She referenced the drawing she'd made a couple of times, but mostly, she could already see it in her head. Totally engrossed in the work she loved so much, she didn't realize she had an audience until he spoke.

"He'll love that."

She nearly dropped her piping tool right on top of the cake as she let out a stifled squeak of surprise. Whirling around, she stared, wide-eyed, at the man she most and least wanted to see in all of Thedas. A flurry of conflicting emotions inundated her - relief at his well-being, awareness of his very masculine presence, fear of his reaction, irritation at his interruption. Unsure of what to do, she let the irritation take over.

"And you nearly ruined it all, scaring me like that."

"Apologies, highness," Rylen responded, that tell-tale smirk belying his words.

He stepped into the kitchen, and her heart leapt into her throat at his increasing nearness. She pulled her gaze away and turned to the table, pretending to review her design. Every nerve ending in her body snapped and popped with pent-up awareness as well as something less pleasant - uncertainty.

"When did you get back?" she asked the cake.

"Late last night. I rode back with a few of the sappers who came to retrieve the final batch of supplies." His voice, coming increasingly closer with each word, took on a subdued quality as he murmured, "We're almost ready."

Her gut clenched in fear. Every thought of the assault brought with it the recognition of what she stood to lose even supposing an Inquisition victory. She'd allowed herself to care, and now she would have to endure the pain if he fell.

Narrowing her eyes and gritting her teeth against the burn of tears, she leaned over the cake to place the final swirl, but her hands shook too badly to complete it. The piping tool clattered to the table, and she turned around, hands clenched.

"Why did you post a man to watch me?"

Rylen stilled, his brows rising in surprise, but his expression quickly evened out. "I wanted... I needed to make sure you were safe." He took another step toward her, his hesitation obvious. His eyes flicked to her throat, and he asked in a softer tone, "You... those marks when we first met... you did that to yourself, didn't you?"

Trice's heart pounded in fear and... relief. She could deny it, but what would be the point? The man was far too clever for his own good. She leveled her gaze at his chin.

"Not... not on purpose," she admitted.

Rylen let out a pent-up breath, as if he hadn't taken a breath while waiting for her answer. "I figured as much. Not much point in wearing those fancy Orlesian dresses if you have to cover up the parts they're meant to reveal."

He winced, and she knew he immediately regretted the poor attempt at humor. Strangely, though, the words burst through the wall she'd built up between them - some futile attempt to protect herself - and she couldn't help laughing at the abysmal, tasteless joke.

"That was _terrible_ , Rylen."

He smiled and huffed out a laugh as well. "It was. I ought to be publicly shamed for it."

"Duly noted," she replied with a final chuckle. "I'll see what I can manage."

A heartbeat of silence, then two, then...

"Trice..."

She swallowed and finally met his serious gaze. Maker, she wished he would stop talking and just hold her. Her body yearned for his touch. But though he stood close, he hesitated, and his eyes skittered off toward the back of the kitchen as he exhaled noisily.

"Stroud told me of your... nightmares." His eyes sought hers again. "Did you truly see him in your dreams... _before_ you met him?"

Again, the voice of self-preservation told her to lie. Or at least tell him a half-truth. Anything to bring back the easy closeness they'd had only days ago.

But the feeling of freedom and safety bestowed by Mallory had yet to leave her, and she acknowledged that any possibility for something _real_ with Rylen would require her to be honest with him. Not all at once, of course, but she had to begin somewhere.

"I did." She struggled for the right words, and she thanked the Maker that he remained silent as she pushed away from the table and began to pace. "Before I came here, I'd never had nightmares. Not like this, anyway. But after I arrived, they came more frequently. First, only a couple nights a week. Then every other night." She glanced at him as she paced. "Now they come almost every night."

Rylen frowned. "If you didn't have the nightmares before you came, how..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "How did you manage to... hurt yourself?"

Trice grimaced and stopped to lean heavily over the kitchen table. The cake designs swirled and whorled in her vision, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she uttered the truth that no one outside of her children and the Guerins knew.

"Sometimes I have... visions. They've always happened while I'm awake, though. If I'm fast enough, I can typically prevent them with deep breathing and pressing on my temples or eyes."

"Visions," he repeated slowly. "As in... you're awake, but you see things in your mind?"

"Sort of," she said hesitantly. "I often become... insensible during the visions, which is how I... how I hurt myself. I can be usually be brought 'round by outside forces such as loud voices or physical touch."

"And you're sure they're real events? You can see events while... or _before_ they happen?"

She shook her head in frustration. "I don't know. I did once see a person's death and then... then I found out he'd died. But how does anyone really know that for sure?"

She turned pleading eyes toward him, and she instantly wished she could unsee what now lingered on his face. The disbelief and _fear_ written plainly in his expression stung more than any reproof or misplaced joke ever could have.

Her shoulders slumped. He doubted her. And the worst of it was that she couldn't blame him. Steeling herself, she squared those same shoulders, picked up her piping tool and finished the swirl of the final constellation on Jacques' star-chart cake.

"It won't affect my work, so you needn't be worried about that."

"I'm not. I-"

Two of her kitchen staff entered at that moment, and Rylen paused, following their movements to the back of the kitchen. They retrieved their aprons and hovered nervously in the back, waiting for her to give them their morning instructions.

"I need to get started on breakfast," she informed him in clipped tones without meeting his gaze. "If you'll come back in an hour, I'll have your meal ready for you." She finally looked up, steeling herself further. _Don't fall apart, Patrice Millier._ "Unless you'd rather I sent something to your office?"

"That won't be necessary," Rylen said slowly before his expression turned wary. "We can continue our discussion later, then?"

She turned away and began cleaning up her work area. "If you like."

She walked away to place her leftover frosting in the insulated chest with the ice rune, and when she returned to retrieve the cake, Rylen was gone. Next to the cake, however, was a sealed letter labeled _For Jacques_ on top of an old book on the history of Thedas constellations.

Trice bit her tongue hard to keep the tears at bay.

 

___________________________

_How many ways can you fuck up, Rylen?_

"Numerous and varied" appeared to be the answer. He cursed under his breath and lunged at his sparring opponent. The woman parried efficiently and turned her momentum into an attack of her own. Rylen countered, ducked under her left side and nearly got in a hit before she managed to recover and push him away with her sword. He set up for another go, but his mind was elsewhere.

Trice had barely acknowledged him when he'd come back for his breakfast, but at least he seemed to have done right by Jacques. Rylen had worried over the gift, wondering if an old, worn-out book was really the best choice, but an endearingly heartfelt - if a little awkward - thank you from the boy had eased Rylen's misgivings. On top of that, Jacques had excitedly accepted Rylen's suggestion that they end the day with another stargazing session while enthusing that, so far, it was his "best birthday yet."

After he'd settled Jacques with his usual training group, Rylen had almost immediately moved to the expert warrior group to get in a round of vigorous training before the heat set in. He needed something physical to allay the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that had followed him around since that morning conversation.

Rylen's sparring partner lunged again, and they danced back and forth for a few moments before he managed to get in a hit. She acknowledged, and another warrior stepped in to take her place. They circled the fenced area while Rylen desperately tried to think up a way to untangle himself from his mess. To _fix_ it.

He should have prepared better. Mentally. Emotionally. He'd known what she would likely say, but still, hearing her answers had thrown him off balance. Mostly, though, he regretted letting that show in his expressions. It was the only thing that could account for her coldness and dismissal at the end.

When the glare and heat made him feel as though he was melting inside his armor, he finally dismissed the soldiers to their midday duties in the keep. A large patrol of the route between the keep and the Imperial Highway had just returned, so Rylen waited with them to fill his skin. When he'd quenched his thirst, he trudged back to the keep to catch up on correspondence he'd missed during the past two days.

Unfortunately, his mind would not stay focused, at least not on the matter at hand. He stood from his desk and began pacing.

Rylen was used to fixing problems, not creating them. But a woman who could possibly foretell the future left him wary and uncertain of what the problem might even be, let alone how he might fix it.

Her obvious suspicion about the soldier he'd posted to guard her had briefly caused him to doubt his motives... But no, he recalled all too well the terror for her safety that had prompted him to act. When Stroud had allayed Rylen's unwarranted jealousy by revealing the nature of that early morning conversation with Trice, the memory of those jagged red marks disfiguring smooth caramel skin had clouded his vision and reason. He'd only thought of protecting her... even if that meant protecting her from herself.

Could she secretly be a mage? He'd never thought to test her. And why would he? Besides, if she were somehow connected to the Fade, testing the theory would only add "physical injury" to his list of infractions against her. A connection to the Fade, however, meant the possibility of possession, and Rylen shuddered at the thought of her lovely person being consumed by a grotesque demon. _Maker forbid it!_

Looking out his window, he noted the time. A mixture of anticipation and apprehension soured in his gut as he took the first tentative steps toward the kitchens. However, gnawing hunger won out over dread of her reception - or lack thereof.

Stepping into the bustling expanse of tables and tools and cooks, Rylen spotted her speaking to one of her staff members in the back of the room. Out of habit, his gaze swept over the rest of the occupants with the precision of a soldier trained to always be aware of his surroundings.

Jacques and Clara stood in a corner near the opposite door playing some sort of jumping game. He approached, and Jacques immediately smiled in greeting. Even after the past week of such greetings from the boy, he still felt a rush of pride at that hard-won trust.

"Captain! Come play with us!" Clara encouraged when she finally noticed Rylen.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the game, lass."

"Oh, it's easy," she replied, unfazed by his reticence. "You think of something in your head but not out loud. Then, the other person asks lots of questions. They have to guess after... ten questions. A wrong guess means jump the hoops!"

Clara demonstrated by jumping from one floor stone to another. Rylen noticed faint paint marks on certain stones and saw that she made sure to land only on the stones with those dots of color.

"The captain is too important to play your silly game, Clara," Jacques admonished his sister in a lofty tone. "He's got tons of things to do. Right, Captain?"

"Eh, well, I do have things to do," Rylen acknowledged, "but perhaps another time, Clara-girl?"

"Oh, sure! You didn't get to see my griffon, and since you're not a stranger, I can invite you to my room."

Rylen, a bit thrown by the change in topic and unsure of whether or not he'd truly be welcomed, looked to Jacques for the boy's customary contradiction of whatever his sister said. However, Jacques actually nodded at this.

"You could come by tonight before we go out stargazing if you want."

Before he could reply, a cheerful welcome rang out behind him. Rylen turned around to find Katlin approaching, plate in hand.

"Here you are, Captain. We'd offer conversation along with your vittles, but with the patrol returning this morning, we've got a bit more to do than normal."

"Who needs conversation from lovely ladies when I could be out training with legions of soldiers grunting about the heat and play acting at battle maneuvers?" He and Katlin shared a smile before he began, "I am sorry for the extra-"

"Don't be," Katlin cut in. Her customary smile dimmed. "I'd rather they be here making a load of extra work than... not."

And suddenly Rylen's mood darkened even more. This assault would be no miraculous, zero-casualty storming of a keep full of untrained bandits. The Wardens handled their weaponry as well as any templar - possibly better. The men Rylen had trained... many of them would die, and Rylen would likely have to watch. He didn't relish the idea of losing his own life, but watching those he'd trained fall in battle seemed far worse.

"Aye," was all the response he could manage.

He swallowed down the bile that rose up in his throat, and his eyes darted past Katlin. She turned and followed his gaze.

"She's been in a tizzy all morning," Katlin murmured, a sly note in her voice. "I'd thought giving Jacques his gifts and celebrating with singing and cake this morning would have popped her out of her bad mood, but..."

Rylen's eyes flicked back to Katlin. "But what?"

"Perhaps you know better than me, seeing as the staff said you were here with her before they arrived. Said things looked tense."

Rylen blinked to see the seriousness in Katlin's normally blithe face. It reminded him of the first time they'd met - when she'd told him off in his own office.

"Yes, well..."

He trailed off as Trice finally glanced his way. Their eyes caught and held, hers flashing with... something. Was it disappointment? Resignation? She gave him an infinitesimal nod before tearing her gaze away to focus on her staff once more.

"I don't know what happened, but you've got your work cut out for you. And here I thought you two were doing so well."

Katlin's words held a note of laughter, but the serious tone remained as he finally focused on her once more. He dipped his head, acknowledging her words before slipping out of the kitchen to stew in his office for the remainder of the day.

 

**

 

Rylen lifted a hand to knock at the door, but it flew open and a small body charged at him before he could make contact with the wood.

"Ooof!" came a muffled exhalation into his legs.

Clara bounced back from the force of the impact and landed on her bum in the doorway. Jacques was right behind her, and he snatched a piece of paper out of her hand before Clara could recover. The girl sat still for several seconds... before bursting into high-pitched laughter.

"You foiled my 'scape!" she said as she fell all the way to the floor, rolling around and cackling like a mad little witch.

Jacques looked up at Rylen and then rolled his eyes at his sister before reaching underneath both her armpits to lift her up from the floor. She refused to hold her own weight, however, her legs wobbling around like overcooked noodles as she continued to giggle. Jacques sighed and settled with dragging her away from the door.

Rylen entered, disappointed to find Trice not in the room. He shook his head and refocused. He was here to see Clara's griffon and then go stargazing with Jacques. That was all.

"I thought you wanted to show the captain your griffon?" Jacques prodded the girl.

Clara immediately stood up on firm legs. "Oh, yes!"

She bounded off to the toy chest while Rylen followed at a more sedate pace. Jacques, he noticed, moved to the table and placed the paper he'd taken from Clara in between the pages of the book Rylen had gifted him.

"Here it is!" Clara exclaimed, holding up an intricately carved wooden griffon about the size of a barn cat.

Rylen's brows lifted in surprise. The artist had even painted the toy in realistic colors, the golds and browns and white layered one over the other to render the toy almost life-like. A shield with the Warden crest had been carved into the front breast of the beast as if it were wearing some sort of crude armor.

"That is... quite a magnificent piece of work," Rylen acknowledged as he dropped to one knee to get a closer look.

Clara beamed with pride. "Aunt Nellie said the Warden in Skyhold made it for us."

Rylen had occasionally met the other Warden around Haven and thought him a good enough sort. Stroud, however, had warned Rylen to be careful, saying only that Warden Blackwall wasn't all he seemed. But surely a man who made toys for children couldn't be that bad?

"Well, you may have a chance to thank him personally for his work. He'll be arriving at the keep soon."

Clara's eyes rounded to great saucers. "Really?" she breathed.

"Maker's honest truth," Rylen assured while placing a hand over his heart.

Clara squealed. And not a dainty squeal, either. Banshees would have left his hearing more intact that the caterwauling young imp.

"Clara! Stop that noise this instant!"

Rylen stood up just as Trice entered the room seeming distracted and holding a mug of dark liquid in her hand. She stopped abruptly at the sight of Rylen, and his chest contracted painfully at the instant tension locking her shoulders. That little furrow appeared between her brows, reminding Rylen forcefully of when he'd pressed his lips there.

Now more than ever he feared that those stolen moments on the battlements and in the stairwell would be the first and last of his short affair with Trice Valera. He raised a hand to rub at the pain welling up in his chest at the thought.

When she saw her mother, Clara stopped squealing, thankfully. She ran up to Trice to pull at her mother's skirts.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Guesswhatguesswhatguesswhat!!"

The tension on Trice's face eased a little as she looked down at her daughter. "Yes, darling, calm yourself. What is it?"

"The man who made my griffon is coming _heeeeeeere_!"

She made as if she would start squealing again, but Trice placed a finger over her mouth. "Clara, calm yourself."

Clara jumped up and down a few more times for good measure and then nodded. Trice removed her finger, and Clara danced away. Trice watched as the girl picked up the griffon and began flying it around the room. After a long moment of silence, Rylen shuffled and looked over at Jacques, who shrugged apologetically.

"My apologies," Rylen finally said, "I only came to look at Clara's griffon. I didn't mean to over excite her."

To Rylen's relief, a wry grin cut across Trice's previously serious expression, and she finally turned toward him. "Clara's natural state is 'over excited,' so I wouldn't worry too much."

"I'll take that under advisement," he said with a tentative smile.

Her unreadable gaze flitted away and landed on Jacques. "I hope you thanked the captain for his generous gift, Jacques."

"'Course I did," Jacques mumbled, sounding slightly indignant. He then turned to look at Rylen, a smile overtaking his annoyed expression. "It's such an interesting book, too!"

"I'm glad you like it. It was just collecting dust on my bookshelf, so I'm happy to see it be of use to someone."

"You... that was your own book?" Trice asked, her tone hesitant.

Rylen carefully kept his face neutral but feared the flush of heat creeping up his neck gave him away. At least Trice now met his gaze full on, though her wide eyes reflected nothing but dismay.

"It was."

She looked as though she wanted to say something more, but with a glance at her son, she seemed to change her mind.

"Well, thank you for it. And for tonight. I'm sure you two will have fun."

A dismissal if he'd ever heard one. His heart plummeted to his knees. He needed to speak with her alone. Perhaps when he brought Jacques back to the room later tonight?

Instead of suggesting such a thing in front of the children, Rylen merely tilted his head toward her in acknowledgement and in a gesture of farewell. Jacques led the way out of the room, and they quietly made their way to the star-gazing tower.

For the next half-hour, they talked about the constellations and stars Jacques had learned about since their last foray a week ago. The boy further impressed Rylen with his excited yet serious manner, and he found himself enjoying the evening in spite of the constant knot in his gut when he thought of the boy's mother.

When they'd exhausted their current knowledge and found all the constellations visible during that time of night, Rylen sat down and leaned against the parapet. After a moment of hesitation, Jacques sat next to him. They looked up at the night sky, the silence between them comfortable for the most part.

Rylen glanced at the boy's profile now visible as the moons rose higher in the night sky. A nose with a slight bump in the bridge, black eyebrows, long lashes, wide cheekbones, just like his mother. Rylen's chest constricted again, and he thought wryly that if he were taken to theatrics, he might have said his heart was breaking.

It was one thing to choose to remain friends even when he wanted so much more, but to lose even that small piece of her he'd selfishly claimed? She'd lived with this... _gift_ all her life. And though he knew well that it had caused her some pain, she had managed it up to now.

She'd said the nightmares were better now. Perhaps she'd merely needed to tell Stroud of her dream to rid herself of it? He shook his head and admitted to himself that, even with his templar training, he was out of his depth with this. Perhaps he could confide in the Inquisitor? She was a powerful mage and might know something of it.

Rylen peered up into the night sky and watched the stars fade into washed out shadows of their former glory in the light of the rising moon, content to spend these last moments in silent camaraderie with Trice's boy. However, Jacques clearly had things on his mind.

"Are you gonna court Mama?" he blurted out suddenly.

Rylen nearly choked on his reply. "I... what?"

He sat up and leaned away from the wall to take in more of Jacques' expression. The boy looked a little sheepish, but also... defiant?

"You like her, don't you?"

"I... well... yes," Rylen floundered, "but courting is about more than just liking someone." _Maker, how did I get into this conversation... and how do I get out of it?_

"What's it about, then? I thought if two people liked each other, they courted."

"It's... sometimes it's more complicated than that."

"Is it because you're a soldier?"

Rylen frowned. "Well, I don't know all your mother's reasons, but for me... yes, that's a part of it."

"Because you might die?"

"Well, don't throw any of your punches there, Jacques my boy."

"Sorry!" he exclaimed with a wince. "I just meant-"

"I know what you meant, lad," Rylen assured him with a soft chuckle. "But there are other things... and..." Rylen cleared his throat. "I think I might have made your mother sad this morning."

"Just say you're sorry," Jacques suggested confidently. "Girls like that. Works so well on Clara, sometimes I say it when I don't even mean it."

Rylen smothered a snort of surprised laughter. The boy would be well prepared for courting women himself in the coming years if he'd already learned that lesson. Rylen then shifted uncomfortably, trying to think of a way to explain the situation to Jacques.

"I like your mother, but a war is not an ideal time to begin courting anyone."

Jacques shrugged. "Miss Katlin says no time is a good time for anything, so you might as well enjoy what time you've got."

"That sounds like Miss Katlin, but it's not how your mother feels. And I'd rather be friends with your mother than ever hurt her... or you."

_Maker, please let us at least remain friends._

"So... you're _not_ going to court Mother."

Rylen noted with surprise Jacques' slightly disappointed tone of voice. He looked up at Satina's pocked surface floating there in the night sky and then closed his eyes, wondering again if he'd set up both himself and Jacques for inevitable heartbreak.

"Not... not yet."

"When?"

Rylen sighed and glanced down at the boy. Jacques' shoulders hunched forward, and he'd rested his chin on his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

"I don't know. Maybe... maybe never."

Jacques sighed softly, hugging himself tighter, and Rylen winced into the darkness. But it was best not to be too positive. He didn't want to get the boy's hopes up. Or his own.

"I get it," Jacques mumbled.

After a long moment of silence, Rylen stood and then leaned down to offer his hand to Jacques. "Come on, son. Let's get you back to your mother."

Jacques just stared at him for a long moment, his black eyes glittering like onyx in the muted grays of moonlight. Finally, the boy put his hand in Rylen's and allowed himself to be pulled up.

They walked silently to Jacques' room, but Rylen's plans of talking with Trice were dashed by the darkness of the room when Jacques' opened the door. Jacques turned as he closed the door, gave Rylen a thin-lipped smile and a small wave, and closed the door behind him.

Rylen walked down the hall to his own quarters, exhaustion and the familiar edge of withdrawal finally surfacing from his subconscious, as it did almost every night now. A good reminder that he had little to offer a woman like Trice Valera, possible noblewoman.

_Just say you're sorry._

Jacques' words popped into Rylen's head as he entered his own room and closed the door, engulfing himself in the darkness of his room. He lit a candle and sat heavily on the side of his bed.

Surely it couldn't be so simple, but just in case, he sent up a prayer to the Maker to provide him with the blessed oblivion of sleep for tonight... and with the words he needed to get his Trice back on the morrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's another chapter less than a week after the last one. Wheeeeee!!


	17. An attempt at dissolution turns upside down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things explode. It's messy. Also, Rylen's potty mouth is out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't like to be spoilery, but I want to bring everyone's attention to the rating change (from M to E) for this chapter. Please read with caution if you're not into E-rated type things.
> 
> Also, for those keeping track, Jacques' birthday was 26 Guardian.

_2 Drakonis, 9:42_

_We have passed the southern tip of Lake Celestine. Anticipate arrival in one week barring delays. All is ready?_

_Commander Cullen_

Considering it was already 5 Drakonis, Rylen didn't wait for a messenger but headed to Mallory's tower himself with his response. His one-word response.

_Ready._

The sappers had finished their work two days ago. Rylen had just returned from moving the siege equipment into place and ensuring he'd assigned enough soldiers to protect it in the meantime. He'd trained the troops as well as possible considering the short time frame and poor conditions, even training them inside the keep on actual ramparts during the past week to get them accustomed to small spaces. Cullen planned to attack at sundown the day after they arrived, so Rylen had also scheduled training sessions at night to give the troops experience in low light.

They were ready.

"Response for the Commander," Rylen barked as he tossed the scrap of paper on Mallory's desk.

The man rose instantly and began preparing the message for sending. "Welcome back and hello to you, too."

Mallory's dry tone chastised Rylen for his abruptness, but he didn't care. He knew he'd been a bear for the past week and a half. But when _certain people_ refused to talk with you alone or even allow you a quiet moment to clear the air...

At least he knew through tidbits Jacques offered up during daily training that Trice wasn't happy either. Not that he wanted her to be unhappy. _Andraste's tits, I'm a fucking mess._ He mumbled out a gruff apology and turned to leave, but Mallory's words stopped him.

"Were you ever going to tell me about that guard you posted on the Valeras' door for a couple of days the week before last?"

Rylen's shoulders stiffened, and he turned to look Mallory in the eyes as he bit out an emphatic, " _No._ "

"Captain, with all due respect, if I don't know about a potential issue, I can't plan contingencies for it. Does it have to do with her past?"

Rylen narrowed his eyes. "And what do you know about that?"

Without a hint of change in the man's stony expression, he shrugged. "Most everything, I expect."

Of course he did. The Inquisition spymaster left no stone unturned, and she'd expect nothing less from her top agents.

"No... or rather not the past you're referring to." Rylen hesitated. "Is she... noble?"

"She has noble relations, but she herself was disinherited," Mallory said with a frown. "She said she wished to tell you the details. I take it she hasn't yet... for whatever reason."

Rylen's sour mood increased four-fold. "Yes, well, as you know, I've just had _so_ much time on my hands lately."

Mallory hummed out a vaguely skeptical acknowledgement, and Rylen nearly lost his temper. In the past few weeks, he'd been busier and under more stress than he'd been even while assisting Cullen with the Kirkwall relief efforts almost five years ago. He wasn't about to go forcing himself on a woman who clearly didn't want to speak to him when he was buried under a to-do list deeper than the Abyssal Rift.

Rather than stand there arguing with the other man, however, Rylen turned on his heel and strode away, heading for the stairs. He needed a distraction, and physical activity had been about the only thing he'd found that consistently relieved him of the borderline obsessive thoughts of her.

He'd never been this caught up with a woman before, though he supposed that wasn't terribly surprising considering all his rules. But, Maker take him, they hadn't even kissed! Not really.

He'd briefly considered whether a physical encounter with her might help clear his thoughts, but she'd barely spoken to him in the past few days, let alone allowed him a moment alone with her. And deep down, he knew better, anyway. This... whatever it was... couldn't be simply fucked out of his system. The more he knew of her - even this stubborn, seemingly irrational side of her - the more he wanted her. Not for a night, or for a week, but for as long as she'd have him.

 _Forever_ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Rylen quickened his pace as he passed through the gate and the sounds of the training field assailed his ears. He needed a reprieve from these cyclical thoughts that dogged him day and night and spoiled his mood faster than stumbling into a nest of angry varghests.

He arrived to find an atypical solemnity hanging over most of the training rings. They'd begun mixing the ranks in the past week, giving the less advanced troops the opportunity to spar with better opponents. It had served to raise their overall quality, but Rylen knew some of the soldiers had been discouraged at being beaten so easily by the more experienced warriors.

At farthest ring, however, the dim sounds of laughter and shouts of encouragement rose above the clash of steel on steel. As he approached, he saw Jacques circling inside the ring and paused to watch with pride and mild surprise as the boy held his own with a sparring opponent twice his size. Granted, the other man was a new a recruit and therefore new to swordplay, but still, it was an impressive display.

Jacques had mastered the main formations within the first week, so they'd spent the past two weeks teaching the boy how to use his superior speed to make up for a lack of strength. Jacques had apparently taken those lessons to heart. Within a few rounds, the boy had beaten the other man and stood victorious in the ring, bowing to the accolades of the crowd.

A grin replaced Rylen's sour expression, and he picked up a practice sword and stepped into the ring before anyone else could. Sparring with Trice's son wasn't a great way to put her out of his mind, but he couldn't resist the chance to test the boy's mettle after more than three weeks of consistent training.

"How about a round with me, son?"

Jacques whipped his head around, eyes wide, before his shock melted into a giant grin. Warmth bloomed in Rylen's chest at the boy's joyful reaction, but he kept his face carefully neutral.

"Captain! You're back! Did you see? I beat Morris!"

"I saw. Marvelous job." Rylen settled into a ready stance. "It seems you're ready for a bit more of a challenge."

Jacques' grin dissolved into a determined expression, and he echoed Rylen's ready stance. Rylen leaned forward, keeping his body loose and ready, and waited for Jacques to make a move.

Finally, the boy darted in with an efficient attack. Rylen easily countered but found himself surprised by the boy's precision. No flailing or over exuberant moves one might expect from a young boy. But he should have known that serious, studious Jacques wouldn't take any of his lessons lightly.

They circled one another, and Rylen lunged forward in a slower, less aggressive version of his normal attack. He allowed the boy to counter him, and the smile on Jacques' face was worth the jeering from his own troops.

The crowd cheered when Jacques next attacked, and Rylen countered again, but not as easily. Rylen realized with growing surprise that the boy was learning him, learning his techniques.

They sparred back and forth, Rylen anticipating Jacques' tricks, but Jacques countering Rylen's moves with a level of skill and precision that belied his limited training. Although Rylen continued to serve up weak attacks, he found himself enjoying the exercise more than he'd expected.

The crowd had grown, and the cheers for Jacques far outnumbered those for their commanding officer. Rylen didn't mind. His templar training put him in the top rung of warriors in the Inquisition, but he wasn't the best fighter by far. He'd been promoted by the Order and recruited by Cullen for his logic and problem-solving skills more than his fighting skills. Besides, his people needed a morale booster now and again, especially with the specter of the assault dogging their thoughts day and night.

Rylen grinned as Jacques lunged out again, darting to the inside and then swinging expertly at Rylen's side as he twirled away. Rylen dodged the move and laughed.

"Well done, my boy! You move quicker than a templar recruit vying for the front of the dinner line."

"I've had good teachers," Jacques explained in a superior tone through pants for air.

Rylen smiled as he tempered another lunge. Jacques was tiring, slowing down a bit, so Rylen ended up with a near hit before Jacques managed to counter the move.

"Maybe we should call a draw," Jacques called out. "I don't want your soldiers to disrespect you for losing to a kid."

Rylen's brows shot up. "Are you _taunting_ me, boy?"

Jacques grinned, and Rylen let out a boisterous laugh. The closest part of the crowd that had witnessed their exchange laughed, too. But then a not so joyous voice caught his ear.

"Jacques Valera! You put that sword down this instant! What in the Maker's name do you think you're doing?"

Jacques stilled, his eyes closing as he screwed up his face. Rylen turned to find a livid Trice Valera pushing through the bewildered crowd. Her face scrunched up with the power of her disapprobation, and her eyes drilled into them both, even from fifty feet distant.

"Let me through, you ogres," she growled, "or I'll not feed you tonight!"

The threat did its job. Instantly, a wide swath opened before her, and she stomped into the ring. Rylen had not moved, but Jacques had quietly placed the sword on the rack and moved toward his mother, head down. Confused Rylen, opened his mouth to speak, but then, with lightning swiftness, the puzzle pieces clicked into place.

Jacques had lied to him. The boy had never told his mother about the training sessions.

Rylen gritted his teeth to keep from cursing out loud. _Maker fucking dammit!_ As if he didn't already have enough problems where Trice Valera was concerned. And, as much as Rylen didn't want to admit it, it cut deeply that Jacques would do that - lie to him to his face. The sour feeling churned to life in his gut.

Trice's eyes, flashing with an unholy anger, landed on Rylen, and she jerked her head toward the keep. Rylen replaced his own practice sword and looked around at the crowd.

"Back to it!" he barked.

The soldiers instantly dispersed to their own rings, and Rylen walked with mother and son in tense silence to the gate of the keep. Rylen kept his eyes forward, afraid to look at Trice and too disappointed in Jacques to look the boy in the eye. Once there, she pushed Jacques inside.

"I'll deal with you later. Go to your room this instant and write me an apology letter." Eyes down, Jacques nodded and began walking away as Trice added, "And it had better be a damn good one!"

_Just say you're sorry._

The words echoed in Rylen's head. He opened his mouth, but got no further.

"How dare you!" she hissed. "How _dare_ you do this behind my back! I thought-" Her voice broke, and tears filled her eyes, which only seemed to make her more angry. "I thought I could _trust_ you!"

Rylen ached to reach for her, to comfort her, but he knew she wouldn't allow it. Instead, he let his tongue fly and prayed for the best.

"I didn't know, Trice. I... I'm not familiar with how actual parenting works. He assured me he'd told you what he was doing-"

"Of course he did! He desperately wants your approval. To make you proud. Can't you see that? You've endeared yourself to him with your star charts and old books and star gazing. Presented with the allure of spending more time with you learning about swordplay, what else did you think he would do?"

Rylen's irritation flared. "And why would he have to lie, Trice? Is it because you wouldn't have allowed it?"

"Of course not! What mother wants their son to bury their intelligence in order to grunt and sweat on a training field? Perhaps there are some, but I'm not one of them."

Rylen tried to keep his voice steady, but his anger built with each word out of her mouth. "And why does it have to be one or the other? Why not both? He's growing up, Trice, and soon he'll _need_ this outlet to work through all the new feelings and... _urges_. Trust me, you'll thank me in a couple of years."

She narrowed her eyes, her voice low and dangerous. "Are you saying I don't know what's best for my own son?"

"I'm saying," he bit out, "that you might consider including something a _wee_ bit more pertinent to his life than musty old books and circular arguments with a five year old."

Trice looked as though he'd slapped her. Rylen closed his eyes briefly to pray for patience and took a step closer, right into her space.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. And I'm sorry for my part in this mess. But you _are_ overreacting right now. Believe me, I know what it looks like because I did my fair share when you first arrived." Rylen pulled in a breath and exhaled heavily, ignoring the stab of pain at the thought of Jacques' betrayal. "Jacques did wrong, Trice, and perhaps I should have come to you directly in the first place - I will from now on - but I can't help wondering if that's what this anger is truly all about."

"I don't have any idea what you mean," she denied haughtily, but he noticed she didn't quite meet his eyes.

He took another step closer, and lowered his head until their faces were only inches apart. Her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on his chin.

"I think you do, lass. You just have to decide whether you're going to continue being skittish as a fennec about it, or if you're going to tackle this-" He motioned between them. "-head on. The Trice I know would never back down from a challenge."

Her cheeks, already flushed from anger, brightened into a deep red, and he knew he'd hit upon the truth. He should go, especially as they had no doubt accumulated quite an audience by arguing at the entry to the keep as they were.

But his body protested, leaning toward her, anxious to be close to her again. It was the closest they'd been since that day in the stairwell, and his traitorous subconscious brought back those precious memories he'd tried hard to bury - the feel of her in his arms, the way she'd melted into him, the way her curves fit against him and felt under his palms.

Rylen finally forced himself to step back. His body shook from the effort of it, from the force of will it took to move away instead of pulling her into his arms and kissing her until neither of them could think straight. His eyes flicked to the fullness of her slightly parted lips, the rise and fall of her chest as she sucked in angry breaths, and his body responded.

A yearning cut through him, not simply to possess her body, but _all_ of her. Maker, he wanted her for his own, and he'd give her everything he had left in return.

Which wasn't much.

It was this thought that finally had him turning away from her. He strode away to his office, determined to calm himself before he engaged with her any further.

 

**

 

Rylen struggled with the letter off and on for hours in between catching up with his other correspondence from the past couple of days. The blistering midafternoon heat had chased all the soldiers into the cooler lower level barracks for naps or quiet conversation, but he remained in his office as usual, though he'd stripped down to nothing but a tunic and trousers around noon. He finished a new patrol duty roster and then turned back to the letter.

Without her presence to distract him and goad him into saying things he shouldn't, he'd managed quite a nice letter if he did say so himself. He'd explained more thoroughly his reasons for interfering and apologized for not coming to her first. He read it over a final time and signed the bottom with his quick, efficient strokes.

Whatever the outcome, he prayed to the Maker that she'd at least calm down enough to have a conversation with him. The idea of continuing the farce of normalcy they'd stewed in for the past week and half left him hollow in a way that even the incessant itch for lyrium couldn't touch. And he desperately needed to stop thinking so much about her so he could focus on the assault - now less than a week away.

Sitting back, he ran his hands through his hair and enjoyed the cross breeze currently preventing him from melting into a puddle. A few more reports from the outer camps still needed to be dealt with, but he stayed still, letting the breeze soothe him. He'd been running ragged for so long now to prepare for the assault that this moment of stillness seemed all the more precious.

Despite the heat, a tremor ran down his spine. Perhaps it wasn't only his obsessive tendencies that had encouraged thoughts of Trice Valera. He'd never been one to shirk duty, but the coming battle would be unlike anything he'd faced before. A bead of sweat rolled from his hairline down his temple, and he swiped at it with his palm. To his chagrin, another tremor slivered through his body at the thought of the demon-infested fortress that awaited them. He'd seen his share of abominations, but the thought of a fortress full of them...

Rylen grudgingly admitted, if only to himself, that perhaps the gut-churning, sweat-inducing emotions plaguing him in these rare moments of solitude looked just a bit... a very little bit... like fear and dread. And perhaps his constant thoughts of a stubborn, beautiful woman weren't so bad in comparison.

He heard the quick tap of her practical Orlesian boots on the stone long before he saw her. His heart leapt into his throat, all thoughts of fear and death fleeing his mind, and he leaned forward, blindly grabbing a letter from one of the camps asking for more supplies.

He'd barely situated himself when she stomped into view. She didn't stop in the doorway but rather marched directly to his desk. Her eyes still flashed with irritation, but also something else he couldn't place. Without a word, she held a small pie tin a few inches above his desk and unceremoniously dropped it.

The pie landed with a resounding thud, but his gaze never left hers. Her nostrils flared once before she turned on her heel and began walking away. She stopped halfway out, however, and turned back to actually _throw_ a fork at him. With that, she stomped away, her pounding footsteps fading into the distance, while his brain tried to reconcile the incongruities of what had just occurred.

He was unequivocally confused... and unbelievably turned on.

He stared wide-eyed at his doorway for a long moment before his nose registered an achingly familiar scent wafting from the pie tin she'd essentially dumped on his desk. He looked down to confirm that it was indeed a fish and egg pie, still steaming from the oven.

She'd made him his favorite pie? But... _why_? He retrieved the fork from where it had landed near the edge of his desk, tentatively scooped out a forkful and eyed it with equal parts longing and suspicion.

Surely she wouldn't trick him... would she? His face softened as their stolen caresses on the battlements and in the dim stairwell played over in his memory, and he chided himself for the melodramatic turn of his thoughts. She might be angry with him right now, but they'd gotten over _that_ kind of animosity.

And besides, he couldn't imagine Trice Valera cooking anything that she hadn't put her whole heart into. It would hurt her too much to ruin food just because she was angry. And the pie smelled too good to be a tool in some petty comeuppance.

Hesitating only a moment more, he brought the fork to his mouth. Familiar flavors burst on his tongue, and he moaned in ecstasy. It was the best fish and egg pie he'd ever tasted. Better than the fanciest restaurant in Starkhaven. Better than his mother's for Maker's sake!

Rylen nearly tipped over his chair as he exploded out of it to follow after her, a spark of irritation mingling with the flame of adoration burning inside him. This ended now. They'd either blow up in a fight to end all fights, or they'd come together in the inevitable combustion of fiery personalities.

He sincerely hoped for the latter.

 

___________________________

 

She was almost to the kitchen when he caught up with her. She could hear his pounding footsteps - her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she realized he was actually _running_ after her - but she didn't stop until he was nearly on top of her.

She'd dreaded and dreamed of this moment since that morning he'd found her with Stroud. Because Rylen was right. This wasn't about Jacques, though Rylen's thoughtlessness and Jacques' lies still smarted. This was about them. About the distrust she'd seen in his eyes when she told him about her visions. About the way she'd shut him out so he couldn't hurt her anymore. They'd hurt one another, and she needed to make him understand it would be better for them both in the long run if they just let this go now.

But Maker, she missed him so much it hurt, and that just made her even more angry. Because if she didn't stay angry, she would certainly cry.

Trice whirled around, but before she could say a word, he placed a firm hand on her waist and practically pushed her into a nearby storeroom. He closed the door behind him, and they were suddenly alone in the cool semi-darkness broken only by the single torch on the far wall.

"What do you think you're doing?" she exclaimed, shattering the dangerous silence that had gathered between them. "I have a dinner to prepare!"

"Don't be absurd," he scoffed. "No one is in that kitchen. It's too hot and too early in the afternoon. And you and I have an even greater need for a candid discussion."

"Just because I allow my staff the afternoon off doesn't mean I take that time for myself. You should know that. What were _you_ doing in _your_ office?"

He let out a little growl. "Don't deflect. Why did you bring me the pie, Trice?"

"You're making something out of nothing."

"An afternoon baking a pie on a day hot enough to melt armor is not 'nothing.'"

She huffed, embarrassment and anger warring for dominance, and tried to walk past him, but he blocked her exit. He didn't touch her, but her traitorous heart beat even faster at his nearness. Gathering all her courage, she defiantly looked into his eyes and just _glared_.

"Trice..." he said in a warning tone.

"Fine!" she exploded. "I made it because I had planned to make it... before. The ingredients arrived today, and it seemed a shame to waste them!"

"Maker's balls, Trice!" he exploded in return. "You're deliberately being obtuse! Why did you _originally_ plan to make it, then?"

"It doesn't matter anymore," she spat at him. "You clearly have no respect for-"

"I do! Of course, I do!" he exclaimed, exasperation coloring every word. "But I've spent the past twenty years in a Circle. My experience with children tends to be of the whiny eighteen-year-old variety."

It was her turn to scoff. "Oh, please! As if you didn't have children in the Circle. And it's basic common sense, Rylen! When dealing with a child, you ask his mother if she's OK with him learning how to skewer another human being like a fatted calf!"

"Oh, don't worry. We only pull out the cow-shaped targets for special occasions," he mocked before letting out a growl of frustration. "And you're avoiding the real question _again_. You won't throw me off the scent so easily, lass."

"I don't know what you're-"

" _Why did you make the pie, Trice?_ "

"Because..." she trailed off, her brain scrambling for yet another half-truth.

He took an antagonistic step forward. "Because? Yes?"

"UGH! Because I wanted to do something _nice_ for you, OK?" she blurted out. "As... as an _apology_! Is that alright? Or are you going to berate me some more now?"

Her cheeks, already flushed from her anger, burned hotter from embarrassment at the admission. She let the embarrassment fuel her anger, stewing in her outrage even as Rylen blinked once before shaking his head and giving her a disbelieving look.

"You've barely talked to me in a _week and a half_ , Trice," he grumbled through clenched teeth. "And that's after you said we could talk about... about everything. You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing you just up and decided to-"

"I _said_ we could talk _later_! I never said how _much_ later."

"That's bullshit, and you know it!" His voice lowered just a bit as he continued. "Maybe I didn't react how you wanted, but it's not every day a woman claims to have grand visions of the future - of life and death and future tragedies."

"You looked at me like I was some sort of freak!" she cried, her voice breaking with the force of her emotion. "What was I supposed to think, Rylen?"

Rylen thrust his hands in his hair, eyes begging her to understand, even as his frustration poured off him in waves. "Dammit, I didn't _mean_ to! _I don't think you're a freak!_ "

"I know that!" she yelled, her brain buzzing with the truth of his words.

"Then why are you still standing there shouting at me!" he yelled back.

"Because I'll just throw myself at you if I don't stay angry!"

The unexpected admission stunned them both into wide-eyed silence. Their angry huffing filled the quiet storage room as they stared at one another for a moment. Then...

She had no idea who moved first, but when his lips crashed into hers, she exploded into a mindless ball of need. Her fears, her embarrassment, her hurt were all forgotten in the blazing heat of his mouth on hers.

Finally. _Finally_.

His arms banded around her waist, pulling her against him from knees to chest, while her hands scrambled for purchase, one fisting in the front of his tunic while the other wound through the longish strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

"I don't think you're a freak, love," he panted, pulling away just enough to stare into her eyes. "I think you're _extraordinary_."

She melted into him, into those words of acceptance and assurance, as he hungrily claimed her lips once more. His mouth opened and devoured her, a moan rumbling from deep in his chest, and she opened her mouth to him in return.

His tongue swiped feverishly at her lips and then into her mouth. She gasped at the shower of electric sparks behind her eyes when their tongues touched - not in gentle caresses but in powerful strokes that stole her breath and turned her insides to jelly.

In turn, she sucked hard on his tongue and smiled against his lips at the taste of her own cooking, at the knowledge he'd actually tried it before coming after her. Somehow, that knowledge made her even more desperate to take as much of him as he would give in this possibly one-time encounter. His hips bucked into hers as she sucked on his tongue, and his whole body actually shook under her hands.

His movements became less controlled, more frantic, so she pulled hard on his hair, directing his focus to her neck. He happily obliged as she breathed in his masculine scent with every ragged inhalation, the sound of his mouth worshipping her skin creating an illicit symphony of need. His tongue, teeth and lips scraped across her skin, his breath hot and heavy as his tongue drew swirls on that sensitive skin behind her ear.

"Rylen, ohhhh... Mmmmmm... yessssss..."

She'd never in her life felt this kind of want. Her hand released his neck to dive under the collar of his tunic and dig her fingers into the hard muscles of his back. He groaned into her neck, pressing his lips to her pulse point and sucking hard. She vaguely registered that he was walking her backward...

As soon as her back touched the stone wall, his hands began to rove over her body, leaving tingling trails of electric shocks in their wake. He slid a hand from her back to her waist before swiftly moving it around to grip her ass through her thin skirt. The other hand slid up to massage her aching breast, and she arched her back and moaned long and loud at that touch, grateful for the thinness of the fabric that allowed her to feel every sliding and kneading movement of his fingers. It had been so long since a man touched her like this...

After a thorough perusal of her neck and collarbone, his lips returned to hers briefly just as his leg moved between her thighs. Then he pulled back, his blue eyes blown out to nearly black, and watched her face while he pressed his thigh into her core.

She nearly stopped breathing. Sweet friction sent arcs of pleasure shooting through her, and her sex pulsed and throbbed as he pressed against her right where she needed him. She knew without a doubt that she was already soaking wet, but any thought of embarrassment flew away when he moved his thigh again. Pleasure coursed through every limb, centering on the way his leg rubbed slowly against her center.

The explicit rhythm of his movements eradicated any further coherent thought. She clawed at his shirt like a wild thing, and he chuckled breathlessly as he removed it. Her hands immediately flew to the wide plains of his shoulders and down his hard chest, chiseled from endless hours on the training field. She hummed out a dirty little moan, and he let out a hoarse curse in return when she thrummed her fingers over his tight nipples.

Only when she felt the warmth of his palm cupping her naked breast did she realize he'd partly unlaced the front of her dress. She arched her back into his hand again and gasped when his fingers closed around her aching bud and squeezed.

"So fucking beautiful," he rasped. "Maker... so beautiful."

"Rylen," she whimpered. "I need you. _Please_."

His hands only left her for a moment before she felt herself being lifted up. She scrambled to gather up her skirts and then locked her legs around his waist. Breathing hard, he bent his head to her exposed breast and savagely sucked on her pebbled nipple, ripping another moan from her while her hips bucked into him. One of his hands cupped the back of her head while the other skimmed over her bare ass. He paused with a sharp intake of breath.

"You're not-" His voice broke, and he finished on a whisper. "-wearing any smalls?"

"No, too hot," she replied mindlessly, lost in the pleasure of his lips and teeth tweaking her tight peaks.

And then, oh divine Andraste, his hungry fingers slid down and over her dripping core, stroking her folds and swirling around her entrance in his first gentle motions of the encounter. She bucked her hips again and cried out at the pleasure that coursed through her with each slow stroke of his callused fingers against her slick heat.

" _Fuck_ , Trice," he moaned into her neck. "You're so _fucking wet_."

He lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked on them greedily, and Trice thought she might come then and there. "Please, Rylen. I want you."

His jaw tightened, and he rested his forehead against hers, their heavy breathing mingling. "Are you sure? I'm... this is what you want?"

"Yes!" she panted. "You. All of you. _Please!_ "

He pulled back in surprise at her vehemence, but she didn't care. She rolled her hips, seeking that friction she'd lost when he'd lifted her away from his thigh. She was beyond caring about anything but the anticipated sweet release while riding him to his own.

"You're... protected?"

She frowned, her brain fuzzy with want, but finally his meaning came through. "Yes. I started the tea as soon as I got here, just in case everyone wasn't... respectful."

Rylen growled at that, and she shook her head in frustration. "No. I'm fine. Good. Everything... fine... _Please_."

He kissed her hard, possibly muttering the word "mine" into her mouth as he ravaged it. Her inner walls clenched on emptiness, and she whimpered into his mouth. At that, he burst into frantic motion again, his hands reaching under her ass to his laces, now covered in her wetness.

At the first slide of his freed cock over her folds, they both moaned loudly. He rolled his hips a few times, rubbing his length back and forth over her wet core, and then reached between them to skim his still-slick fingers over her clit.

She gasped and jolted, her movement serving to notch the head of his cock into her sopping entrance. It had been years since she'd been with anyone, but she didn't think she'd ever been so wet before. She relaxed her muscles, and before he could react, she rolled her hips and slid onto him with a groan of relief and a rush of bone-deep satisfaction.

It felt right. So incredibly, beautifully right.

He sucked in a tortured, ragged breath and stilled, but she could feel him, hot and throbbing. Inside her, filling her. One of his hands slapped against the stone wall by her head as if he needed the extra support to keep himself upright. The other slipped underneath her knee, opening her wide while supporting her position against the wall.

He looked down between them to where he was buried to the hilt inside her. His neck muscles bulged, and his voice sounded like stone scraping over stone.

"Maker... _Trice_..."

"Move, Rylen," she managed between gasps for breath. "Move inside me."

He complied, and his eyes opened wide as he slowly withdrew and then slid home once more.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," he rasped.

"Faster," she pleaded.

He looked up, and she nearly wilted at the awe on his face. She didn't deserve that kind of worship. But then he pulled out and slammed into her, and she lost all reserve.

They quickly found their rhythm, and Trice felt her eyes roll back in her head. She adjusted the angle of her hips and found the position that allowed his cock to slid over her sweet spot with each thrust. She moaned her pleasure with each stroke, the pressure coiling and building deep inside her.

"Trice, I'm gonna..." Rylen groaned breathlessly. "I don't know how long I can... you feel so _fucking good_..."

She desperately pried his hand from the wall and placed his thumb over her clit. He immediately rubbed once, and her eyes rolled back in her head. He rubbed twice, and she moaned, the pressure building to a breaking point deep in her core. At the third stroke, the tsunami of pure feeling exploded into a cascade of sparks unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Her walls convulsed around his thick cock, milking him into his own climax.

He pounded into her, losing all rhythm, and she came back down from her euphoria in time to watch him splinter into a thousand pieces. He gave one final thrust and gasped out her name as his cock pulsed and jerked inside her.

They shuddered with the aftershocks of the intense orgasm, clinging to each other as if nothing and no one else existed but this singular moment of pleasure. As he gradually woke from their sex-induced stupor, his lips found her neck. She tenderly skimmed her hands over his still trembling back and shoulders in strokes of comfort and appreciation.

"That was... unbelievable," Rylen mumbled lazily into her skin.

She smiled and hugged him to her. "Mind blowing," she agreed softly.

As the excitement faded, however, her back began to ache from the chafing of the hard stone behind her, and her leg threatened to lose its grip on his waist. She slowly unhooked her leg, and he seemed to come alive at this, lowering her other leg to the floor and then holding on to her waist until she regained her balance.

He pulled back slowly, and his face reflected his satisfaction as he discreetly put himself back together. But it also held the hint of a question.

"I need to get back to the kitchen," she said in as light a tone as possible. "My staff is probably already wondering where I am by now." She placed a hand on his bare chest. The sparse curls sprung up between her fingers, and she stroked him possessively. "But we should talk about... everything. Soon. Tonight?"

Rylen grimaced as he lifted his hand to press over hers while the other gripped tightly to her waist. "I can't tonight. We've got night training for the rest of the week. Perhaps... perhaps tomorrow morning?"

She nodded. "I'll make it work."

A flicker of doubt marred his satisfied expression. "You give your word, then? Tomorrow morning?"

She'd done that. She'd planted that seed of doubt with her stupid avoidance. Now she'd have to work to earn back his trust. Her hand on his chest slid up to cup his cheek as she looked earnestly into his beautiful pale eyes.

"I promise," she whispered.

He gave her a broad smile, and she couldn't help smiling back. Her anxiety and doubt continued to plague her from a distance, but she was tired of fighting this insane attraction. Tired of hurting herself and others by denying it. Hurt would come regardless of whether or not she enjoyed this time with him.

Rylen dipped his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her willing mouth. This kiss contained all the sweetness their first had lacked as he brushed his mouth over hers and sipped at her lips as though he would never tire of them. She let herself fall into the kiss, enjoying every brush of his lips against hers, the tingle of skin touching skin, the chemical reaction that even now simmered to life as they came together. He finally pulled away, his breathing elevated.

"I think I'd better go before I ravish you against the wall yet again."

"I wouldn't mind," she admitted, "but the kitchen staff might grow restless."

"Can't have that," he responded with a wink and a cheeky grin. "They might come looking for you and find more than they'd bargained for. Besides, I've got a fish and egg pie waiting for me upstairs."

Oh, how she'd missed this. Their teasing and playful interactions. Their day-to-day conversations that left her happy and smiling. She'd missed _him_.

With a firm press of his lips to hers, he eased away from her, slipped on his shirt and left the store room with a final smile and wink. At the click of the door latch, Trice leaned back against the wall, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes, too many emotions vying for attention to pick just one.

They had a tentative understanding, but she dreaded the coming conversation as much as she looked forward to it. She sighed and put a hand to her stomach in an attempt to calm her flaring nerves. As much as she knew she should, she couldn't bring herself to be sorry for what had just happened. But he might be when she told him everything.

Her dreams had changed and become more disruptive since they'd last spoken. She'd even woken the last several nights either on the floor or, more terrifyingly, at the door trying to open it. And considering the content of the dream, she wouldn't blame Rylen if he ran away from her as far and as fast as possible.

Tomorrow morning, though, she would tell him everything. She would lay it all out before him and let him decide if he truly wanted to tie himself to her for... however long this lasted. If not, she'd let him go with the knowledge that at least she'd had this one beautiful afternoon with him. And hands down the best orgasm of her life.

A smile bloomed on her lips in spite of all the things wrong between her and Rylen and especially her and Jacques. She would simply have to do whatever it took to fix her messes.

In the past week, she'd come to the conclusion that running, while easier, had never done her a bit of good. It was time to stand and fight for what she wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought I was joking with the angry wall sex, didn't you Kagetsukai? ;)


	18. The reckoning, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Jacques get some things sorted. More of Trice's past is revealed. Mother and son bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI - Chapters 15 through ... eh... it's looking like Chapter 20 at this point... all take place during Chapter 55 of Part 1.

Clara plodded along beside Trice on the short walk back to their room that evening, clearly aware that _things_ had happened... but not sure what. The girl's subdued demeanor reminded Trice of what awaited her down the stairs and through the door.

She'd briefly seen Jacques after the initial confrontation on the training fields, but she'd left the room without saying much because she'd known her anger was out of proportion with his crime. The anger from this morning, however, had dwindled with the passing hours into heart-breaking disappointment at his deception. Jacques had shaken her trust in him.

 _But didn't you do the same to Rylen?_ Hadn't she taken his trust and twisted it until he doubted her words? And considering their explosion of passion this afternoon, she owed the man more than a thoughtless admission of her weakness screamed at him in anger. She owed him the truth.

Trice squeezed her eyes shut as she paused in front of her door. Mistakes. So many mistakes to rectify. She'd lied so often to protect her children that the half-truths and misleading statements had become second nature, effortlessly sliding off her tongue like drops of poison to effectively kill off the deeper connections that might have endangered their family in the past. Her earlier resolve to fix her messes had not wavered, but the long day had left her with a bone-deep weariness only compounded by the continued lack of restful sleep.

Sucking in a deep breath, she puffed out her cheeks and then let out the breath in a huff before reaching for the door handle. She could not ask Rylen for forgiveness without first making things right between her and Jacques.

A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through her at the sight of Jacques asleep in his cot. His face looked puffy, and her hardened heart softened slightly at the evidence of his distress.

She turned away, pressing her finger to her lips to indicate that Clara should be quiet. They got ready for bed in silence, sponging off the worst of the day's sweat and grime with their daily ration of water and cleaning their teeth with a bit more of the precious liquid. Trice dressed herself and then Clara in their sleeping clothes and tucked Clara into bed with her favorite doll.

When she was certain the girl was asleep, Trice lit the candle on her nightstand to fight off the encroaching darkness and crept to the table. Jacques' letter lay in the middle, precisely folded and marked with a shaky "Mother" scrawled into the flap. Taking it back to her bed, she settled against the headboard, drew in a deep breath, and unfolded the letter. She glanced over the page - written in Antivan because, of course, Jacques had used it as an opportunity to practice - and then set to reading.

_Dearest Mother,_

_I am so sorry. I shouldn't have done it, but I didn't mean for things to go so far. I went the first time because I was excited that the captain asked me especially. I didn't tell you then because I was afraid you'd say no, and I wanted to go so much..._

So, she'd been right all along. He'd wanted to do it for Rylen's sake. She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, fighting back the surge of exasperation. She'd feared this.

And yet, she couldn't help the relief seeping in around the edges of her frustration. She hadn't yet worked up the bravery to hope for anything permanent between them, but she knew she wanted more from Rylen than some clandestine liaison. The fact that Jacques already respected Rylen might be a good thing.

Shaking her head to banish the selfish thought, she turned her attention back to the letter, tilting it slightly to capture more light.

_...Then, I met the other beginners, some of them only a few years older than me, and I was even more afraid to tell you because I like them. It's so much nicer to be around them than listening to Clara all the time. I know you tell me I should be patient with her, Mama, but sometimes it's really hard, especially when I have so much fun with the other boys..._

Trice read the sentences over again, her eyes widening slightly at the revelation. Her hands, still clutching the letter, fell to her lap as she took a long, hard look at the single, cramped room that had become their life.

Toys lined the bookshelves and spilled from the chest in the corner. A few rogue blocks and a doll lay forgotten against the far wall. Jacques' books rose up in an impressive pile on the far end of the table. A few rickety pieces of furniture obviously constructed from salvaged wood, including a bed and two makeshift cots with Inquisition-issued blankets and linens, completed the rather meager scene. And the furniture didn't even belong to her.

It bore all the markings of a lifetime of loss, but she'd thought that just keeping them together would be enough. She'd thought of survival. Of getting by.

But Jacques didn't want to merely survive. He wanted to _live_. She'd been looking down, pushing through, protecting the three of them for so long, it hadn't occurred to her that he might wish for more. But now that she recognized it, it was all too simple.

He was lonely. Her boy was _lonely_.

Trice hadn't had any siblings growing up, but even so, she'd had many friends from school or through children of her parents' friends. She gritted her teeth against the sting behind her eyes. This is what her choices had done to them. To him.

She had relegated him to a life without friends.

She quietly drew in a deep breath to fight back the tears. She had done it to keep them safe, and she knew without a doubt that she'd do it all over again if she had to. But she'd couldn't turn a blind eye to the cost any longer. She sighed softly and raised the letter to the light once more.

_...I shouldn't have lied to you, but I feel so good when I'm learning something new, Mama! The captain says I am doing better than most people with my level of training. It makes me feel proud of myself. When I'm done with a day of training, I'm tired, but it's a good tired. I can focus better on my reading and writing and the fun number problems the captain showed me for predicting where a star will be and when..._

Trice paused to wipe away the tears that had escaped her attempt at control. Rylen's words echoed in her head: _You might consider including something a wee bit more pertinent to his life than musty old books and circular arguments with a five year old._

As much as she hated to admit it, Rylen had been right all along. Her son needed more than she could give him. Oh, how that admission smarted!

A rustle of bedclothes caught her attention. She quickly wiped away the tears that had gathered in her eyes and lowered the letter to her lap. Jacques sat on the edge of his bed, eyes on the floor. Trice took a calming breath, set the letter aside and held out a hand as she sat up and away from the headboard.

"Come here, son," she murmured.

Jacques stood and came to her immediately, though his eyes remained downcast. He didn't sit on the bed but rather hovered at the edge, silently shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he took her hand. She sighed, the fingers of her free hand once again finding the bridge of her nose and pressing into the pain that had gathered there.

"What am I going to do with you?"

Obviously sensing the rhetorical nature of the question, Jacques remained silent. The fingers not trapped in her hand tangled themselves in the edge of her blanket, and she smiled wryly at the familiarity of that particular habit before letting the smile fade.

"Your letter reads more like a justification than an apology," she chastised.

"Sorry," he whispered.

Trice grimaced. She was already screwing this up.

"I know, but... But no matter the perceived good that came from your deception, you still lied to me, Jacques."

He lifted his head just enough to look at her through his thick lashes. "You lie sometimes, too. You lied about my father for my whole life."

And there it was. She'd known he would come back to it when he'd thoroughly processed the situation. Yet she still felt as though he'd dropped a bomb on her.

"That's..." She took a breath and held it for a moment before continuing, "That's different. You were too young to understand. And... in many ways, so was I."

"What about all the other lies we have to tell, Mama?" he asked in a slightly belligerent tone. "Lies about ourselves and even our name?"

The pain behind her eyes spread to her temples and forehead. "You're right. Sometimes we have to lie to others to stay safe. That's my fault, and I'm sorry for it. But it's not the same, Jacques. Those lies keep us together."

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if we _weren't_ together," Jacques muttered angrily.

Trice's mouth dropped open in shock. She quickly schooled her expression, glad that Jacques had decided to look down at his twisting fingers when he dropped that particular bomb. She grabbed hold of his shoulder and tugged at their clasped hands.

"You don't... You _can't_ mean that," she hissed. "Jacques!"

"Well, Clara would be cared for with her other family, right? And they don't want me because I'm not one of them. I could stay here and train while you cook. She could be a lady or whatever. And," he locked his jaw and looked up again, "you and me wouldn't have to hide anymore."

Trice could hardly breathe. She tried to keep the hurt from her voice as she responded, but the shock made it difficult to judge her success.

"And that's what you think? You'd give up your sister just like that? Tell me, son, how would you feel if the situations were reversed?"

He frowned. "I guess... I guess I'd be scared to go. And... and I'd miss you." Then he lifted his head in defiance. "But if I could go to another family that liked me and wanted me... I don't think it'd be so bad."

Trice pulled her hand away from Jacques' and covered her face. She would fall apart if she didn't take a moment to calm herself. She desperately wanted to yell at Jacques for saying such awful things, but...

When had her boy become so bitter? So resentful of his sister? Maker and Andraste preserve her, how could he actually want to split up their family?

She breathed deeply and reminded herself that he didn't know. He couldn't understand what Lady Rousseau would do to Clara. What growing up with a mother like her had done to the woman's own children.

Dropping her hands, Trice stared at her lap for a long, silent moment. So many horrible truths still lay buried in the recesses of her memory, and tonight she would have to dig up yet another. She could only pray Jacques would understand what she was trying to tell him. A deep pain rose up inside her as she contemplated the words - the truth - she'd never admitted to anyone, not even Nellie and Marcel.

"When they first took her, I did think about it," she finally whispered. "It seemed like such an impossible task to get her back. With them, she would've had every advantage money could buy. All the best tutors. The finest clothes."

She nearly choked on the sudden flood of remorse and bitterness at her failure as a mother. It ebbed slightly, however, as Trice placed the side of her crooked finger under Jacques' chin and lifted until he met her eyes.

"But I promise you, son. Even the most exquisite food can turn to ash in your mouth when there is no love behind it. The fancy clothes fetter you with expectations. The tutors, they aren't like Monsieur Julien. They beat all originality and spirit from you. Harsh words and withheld love shrivel your heart to nothing."

Trice's voice adopted an urgent tone as she continued. "Clara's originality, her sense of adventure, her fearlessness - Lady Rousseau would pulverize everything that is lovely and unique about your sister and rebuild her as the perfect lady. Quiet, unassuming, boring... and cold. Just like Lady Rousseau."

Jacques' brows furrowed, and his eyes unfocused as he took in Trice's words. She used his processing time to fortify the defenses he'd blown to bits with his ruthless logic. Finally, he focused on her once more.

"But... but Father..." He shook his head and started again. "He was so kind. If Lady Rousseau is so bad, how come Father was so good?"

Instead of answering, Trice countered with a question of her own. "I never did tell you how Jerome and I came to be together, did I?"

Jacques shook his head, curiosity sparking in those onyx depths. Trice breathed a small sigh, dropped her eyes to her lap, and resigned herself to attempting to explain some very grown-up things to her boy.

"I began assisting Nellie at the market when you were about a year old. The first time Jerome stopped by, he only spoke with Nellie, but at the end of the transaction, he turned and gave you a wink. Your face lit up with the most joyful grin." Trice smiled to herself at the memory. "I think he had my heart from that moment, but of course, these things take time, and... I still wasn't sure if your father - your birth father - would be coming back."

She'd also noticed from Jerome's fine clothing that he was obviously an important man. Possibly noble. She remembered actively coaching herself to guard her heart against him. The previous year and a half had been difficult but manageable with Nellie and Marcel's help, and she'd had no interest in returning to the world that had treated her so poorly. Not when she'd worked so hard to be rid of it.

"We got to know one another during the next few months. He would stand by the stall and chat with me while I worked or sometimes hold you and play with you if you were fussy. He told me about his siblings - his older brother and future comte, Mathieu, and his young sister, Lorna. About how he'd left home at seventeen to experience the adventure of a life with the Chevaliers. About his father, a distant but occasionally warm man who preferred their country estate and mostly left them to their own devices in Val Royeaux."

"In return, I told him of my own origins, my downfall in the eyes of my grandmother and the rest of the nobility. I even told him of my marriage. How I feared and yet missed the life I'd given up. Jerome listened to it all with a sympathetic ear."

She paused, vividly recalling the exact moment she realized she'd been ranting about the poor behavior of nobles to a nobleman. She'd been so embarrassed that she'd tried to send him away, but he'd stayed and reassured her with gentle smiles and encouraging words. He had made her feel worthy and wanted - never once berating her for being petty or chastising her for running away.

"He just listened as I told him my life story. And in that moment, I finally understood what had been missing through all my tumultuous years with Grandmother. Jerome made me understand that what I really missed was the caring and support of a real family. The title and the money meant nothing without Mother and Father to share it."

"As you might have guessed, I fell in love with your father quite easily. But as weeks and months dragged on, any hope I had that he might feel the same dwindled to nothing. He clearly viewed me as a friend - someone familiar enough with his world to be easy to talk to but also someone far enough removed that he didn't have to worry about expectations."

The realization that Jerome didn't view her as a potential lover had been a painful one, even with all her so-called preparations. During six months of twice- and sometime thrice-weekly conversations, he'd never talked of the future. He'd never led her on or promised her anything. She'd been the fool who had fallen in love with an impossibility.

"I resigned myself to friendship. It was no meager prize. I valued everything about him and would take his friendship over nothing any day."

"Then, not long after that, he came to the market wearing not his fine clothes but rather his chevalier uniform. They'd been called up to fight in service of the Empress yet again. I tried not to let my fear show, but he saw it and eased it as best he could. He assured me that he'd been through several such campaigns in the past decade."

"I could sense something else hovering at the tip of his tongue during his entire visit. He acted nervous and out of sorts, but in the end, he went away with a kiss to my hand, a ruffle of your hair and a promise to write."

Trice sighed. Looking up at Jacques, she could see by the tilt of his head from side to side, the shifting of his eyes, and the furrowed twitch of his brows that he was trying to work out why this was relevant. In spite of everything, she smiled at the familiar sight.

"Be patient, darling. We're getting there."

He nodded, and in a show of exactly how intrigued he was by the story, Jacques abandoned his aloofness and scooted himself onto her bed. He crossed his legs and faced her, his eyes glinting in the candlelight as his knees pressed into her leg.

"Jerome was gone for nearly a year. He did write as promised, and I wrote him back with little anecdotes about people we knew from the market and updates about how much you'd grown."

Trice also remembered how bold that distance had made her in expressing how dear he'd become to her and how much she missed him - as a friend, of course. Seeing the words written in stark black and white had done nothing to dissuade her. If she could bring her friend some measure of comfort during the horrors of war, she would sacrifice far more than her pride.

"Finally, Jerome wrote of his return to Val Royeaux. When the day of his planned arrival came and went with no sign of him, I tried not to read into it. Weeks passed, however, with no note or explanation, and I eventually gave up hope that I would ever see him again."

"That doesn't sound like something Father would do," Jacques said, surprise and no small amount of disappointment coloring his tone.

"No, it doesn't, does it?"

She'd cried more in those weeks of silence than during the entirety of their relationship - more than when she'd realized he only wanted her as a friend and more than all those nights she'd spent worrying over his safety. She'd never expected his love, but she'd hoped they could remain friends.

The possible reasons for his silence haunted her, but none more than the idea that he'd thrown away her friendship to spend time with another woman. As irrational as the jealousy was, it festered inside her until she'd had to actively deal with it.

Desperate for any news, she'd written to a friend of hers from school who had stayed in contact in spite of Trice's disinheritance and disgrace in the eyes of the nobility. From her friend, she'd learned that his unit of chevaliers had indeed returned, but no one had seen Jerome since he'd stepped off the boat.

"Finally, after more than three weeks," Trice continued. "I caught sight of him at the market. He waved but didn't approach and left shortly after that."

She couldn't have asked for a clearer indication that Jerome wished to sever their friendship. She'd managed to keep her emotions in check, but the disappointment had been almost more than she could bear.

"I resolved to put him out of my head, but as I was putting you to bed that night, Nellie came in to tell me that Jerome was at the door and begging to speak with me. I wanted to tell him to go to the Void as much as I wanted to hug him and never let go."

Jacques nodded in understanding. "I feel like that about Clara a lot."

In spite of everything, Trice couldn't help the quiet, nervous laughter that bubbled over her lips. Jacques huffed out a little laugh, too.

"It's not really funny," she managed to say in a semi-serious tone, "but I understand why you'd feel that way, Jacques. I've relied on you to look after Clara far more than I should. But families do that for each other. We help and protect each other when necessary."

Jacques nodded again, this time more slowly and thoughtfully, and all semblance of defiance slipped from his expression. He scooted a little closer, his boney knees boring into her thigh.

"What happened with you and Father then?"

"You can thank your Aunt Nellie for her encouragement to speak with him. I might have sent him away otherwise."

Trice would never forget the look in Nellie's eyes that night. _He looks bad, my dear. So thin. So distraught. He may have good reason for his behavior after all._ A seed of concern had taken root at those words, and Trice had gone downstairs to meet with him. She'd found him in the small room they used as a parlor. He stood as soon as she appeared, and she closed the door behind her to ensure they were not overheard.

A nervous energy wrapped around him as he took a step toward her and then stopped. She stared at him and realized that Nellie had been right. He'd always taken great care with his looks, but now, he appeared as if he hadn't seen a barber in months. Although still muscular, he'd grown thin. His strong jaw clenched with repressed emotions, and the uncustomary scruff covering his face and neck lent him a disheveled look. Half moons of dark purple stained the sallow skin beneath his eyes, and his chestnut hair looked as if he'd spent countless hours combing his hands through the long, scraggly locks.

"We stared at one another for a long time before he finally spoke. Quite rightly, he began with an apology. Then he told me how much the letters had meant to him during his year away."

_I'm so sorry, Patrice. I know I've hurt you. I have no excuse. I came to the market today to speak to you, but as with every other time, I lost my nerve._

_Things are... worse out there than ever before. So much death. You remember me telling you of Olivier? I had to kill him, Patrice. My best friend. He betrayed us to Gaspard. So many died because of him. But... But your letters breathed life into me when I wanted to die. You are all that is lovely and beautiful in my world._

"I asked him why he'd done it. Why he'd not come to me immediately if the letters had meant so much to him. I asked him what was stopping him."

At that, he'd gone quiet and tense, his body tightly strung as if struggling under a great weight. Trice remembered the harsh sound of ragged breathing, both hers and his, as he took another step forward, his eyes pleading.

_I want so much to make you mine. I have loved you for so long now. Even before I left for this Void-taken war, I loved you. It is like being without water, without air to be separated from you, especially when, as now, you seem to be within my reach. And little Jacques... I want to be here for him. To watch him grow. To love him as if he were my own._

"I'll never forget his answer." Trice swallowed past the tightness in her throat as the words resonated through her head and into her mouth. "He said, 'Even with all the horror I have seen, it is not that which frightens me. I am afraid, dear Patrice... I am _terrified_ that if I try to love you and especially Jacques, I will turn into my mother. It is what has kept me from you all this time.'"

"And in that moment, I realized that not once during all our long conversations and letters had he mentioned his mother. He described her then, though, in all her horrible glory. He'd left for the chevaliers not because of his sense of adventure, but as a way to escape her manipulations. His sister Lorna, who he'd loved dearly as a child, had become a mere shadow of her joyous self, and his brother treated Jerome as a stranger even in their own house.

"Jerome told me he'd first talked with me at the market because he'd thought me beautiful but kept talking to me because I knew what it was like to be torn down little by little each day by someone who was supposed to love me. He was terrified of doing the same to you and me."

As Jacques thought over her words, Trice let the memories overtake her. Jerome had broken down that night, tears running down his face as he begged for forgiveness. Unable to resist, she'd embraced him and declared her love with equal fervor. She promised to keep him from that side of himself, if it indeed existed, and only when she'd assured him she would leave him if he ever hurt her did he relent. In true Orlesian fashion, they'd immediately consummated their ardor there in the little parlor of the house she shared with Nellie and Marcel.

The next day, Jerome rented the empty house next door. He assured her he didn't care that it wasn't in a fashionable part of town. After a few more weeks of being together nearly every day, she realized she already spent more time at Jerome's house than with Nellie and Marcel. It only seemed natural for her to move in, and Jerome was ecstatic to oblige her.

And when Lady Rousseau finally paid her and Jerome an unexpected visit, Trice had experienced firsthand the harsh and manipulative behavior Jerome had described that night. The older woman had railed against Trice's dishonored status, explained how her very existence besmirched their good name, and berated Jerome for wasting himself and the life she'd given him by being bound to a woman like Trice.

Unfortunately for Lady Rousseau, Trice had years of experience dealing with that kind of behavior, and the Lady had left unsatisfied. In fact, her arrival had only further solidified Trice's love for the man who had grown up with such a woman and still managed to become such a wonderful lover and father.

"Do you understand, Jacques?" Trice murmured into the silence. "As much as Clara might benefit from the Rousseau's money, her grandmother would destroy all that we love about her. We have to protect her, Jacques."

Instead of answering, Jacques slowly leaned forward and placed his head on Trice's belly. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he squeezed. She let out a little huff at the strength in his grip, placing her hands on his shoulders.

"You've become quite strong."

He nodded into her stomach. "Maybe if I keep practicing, it will help me protect Clara?"

Trice let out exasperated huff before smiling wryly down at the mop of black hair burrowing into her middle. "Another justification?"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "You're right. I didn't mean it. I don't want Clara to go away. And... I didn't know Father's family was actually bad. I just know that they wanted to have her. No one wants me or you, so I thought we could stay here."

The punches kept on coming. That was the second time he'd called himself unwanted tonight.

"Jacques, they don't want _Clara_. They want what they can turn her into. It's not the same. And you are wanted, my love. By me and Aunt Nellie and Uncle Marcel and..." She swallowed down her desire to mention Rylen, unwilling to put words in his mouth. "And plenty of other people."

"Do you..." Jacques paused to sniff, his voice warbling slightly, and Trice realized the boy was crying. Her heart squeezed in her chest, and she fought back tears of her own. "Do you think the captain hates me now?"

"What? No!" she declared confidently and then quieted as Clara rustled in her bed. Trice's arms wrapped more tightly around her boy. "I think, like me, he's disappointed that you lied to him. But he certainly doesn't hate you."

"You promise?"

"I promise," she assured, confident she could speak for him in that much, at least. "But you will need to apologize to the captain, too. And then you'll need to work on earning back his trust. And I have to tell you, my love, that earning back a person's trust after deceiving them is far more difficult than simply keeping that trust to begin with."

"OK," he whispered. "I'll apologize to him tomorrow."

"Yes, do that." Trice slid a hand into his hair, combing through the thick mass with her fingers. "You'll have to earn my trust as well. I cannot simply let this pass. You understand?"

He nodded and said in a sad voice, "No more training, then?"

She sighed and closed her eyes. She shouldn't promise Jacques anything until she'd talked with Rylen about this and... other things.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "Not for a while, at least. Not until you've proven yourself trustworthy again."

"I understand," he said broodily into her nightgown.

She shook her head and leaned back against the headboard. Her body, exhausted from weeks of interrupted sleep, demanded rest, but her brain spun out of control with all the emotions dredged up by her conversation with Jacques. Thoughts of Jerome always left her with an achy sort of feeling in her chest, and tonight was no exception.

She shouldn't let Jacques off so easily. Perhaps she should keep him with her and make him actually work in the kitchens for the next few days. They could certainly use the help considering they'd abandoned working in shifts a week ago. It was all hands on deck all the time just to barely get everyone fed before it began all over again. Jacques would be a welcome addition.

Scooting down in the bed, she adjusted herself until her head rested on her pillow. Jacques moved along with her, his head still buried in her stomach, and she let out a resigned sigh. She couldn't justify taking the training away from him now that he'd started. And Rylen was right. He needed something more than books and kitchen duty to keep him occupied. She just wished it didn't have to be fighting.

"Mama?"

"Yes, love."

"I really don't want them to take Clara away," he said in a small voice. "I love her. She's just annoying. A lot."

A watery smile emerged on Trice's face. "And so sayeth every older brother since the beginning of time. But in this family, we take care of each other. Even the annoying ones."

"We stick together," he agreed. Then, after a short pause, he added, "I really am sorry I didn't tell you."

"I know."

"I won't do it again," he promised.

"Good."

"Can I stay here with you tonight?"

Trice looked down at her first-born child tucked against her, his thin but muscular arms wrapped around her waist and a good deal of calf showing under the hem of his too-short pants. He was growing up, and she would need to deal with that. Soon. But not tonight.

"Yes. But let me blow out the candle."

Once she'd extinguished the candle, she settled under her blanket once more. Jacques retrieved his own blanket, curled up at her side and rested his head on her stomach once more.

"I love you, Mama," he said in a sleepy voice.

"I love you, too," she whispered into the darkness before exhaustion overtook her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow! This chapter was supposed to have Rylen and Trice in it, too, but nearly 12K words into it, I finally decided to split this whole arc into multiple chapters. There will be an intermediary chapter between this chapter and "The reckoning, pt 2," as well, which is almost finished and will be up soon.
> 
> *shrugs* The story wants what it wants.
> 
> Also, seriously, kids are weird and sometimes say things that shock adults but make total sense to them.
> 
> And in case it didn't come across as well as I hoped, Lady Rousseau is basically Lady Katherine from P&P... but with ten times the ruthlessness as well as the Game at her disposal.


	19. The stuff of nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice's nightmares get even worse. Luckily, Rylen is in the right place at the right time.

Rylen's sex-induced euphoria lasted all afternoon and into the evening. Deep down he'd known being with Trice would be unlike his other sexual encounters. But the reality of being inside her, of watching her break open for him... his body buzzed, breath hitched, heart raced at the mere thought.

And though he tried to remain focused for the remainder of the afternoon, those thoughts followed him until he was strung tighter than a bow string but, inexplicably, also grinning like an idiot everywhere he went. He arrived at on the ramparts - the site of the evening's training session - only to receive a funny look from Kirel and Mallory when he greeted them warmly. The soldiers already gathered looked askance at him when they caught him whistling a merry tune while he waited for the remaining troops to assemble. He knew he was acting a fool, but he couldn't seem to help it.

Once evening training began, however, the euphoria faded to the background with the sobering realization that some of his soldiers just weren't ready for battle. He began a mental list of people he would assign to protect the keep instead of marching into battle. Cullen would call him soft for it, but Rylen knew that underneath all the bluster, his commanding officer felt the same. The other man had likely left some of his newest recruits behind to guard Skyhold as well.

However, Cullen had also left his day-to-day duties, including training, in the capable hands of Lieutenant Rozellene. Rylen had no doubt that with Rozellene at the helm those poor souls would be well on their way to proficiency by the time Cullen made it back to Skyhold.

Rylen let out a little huff of amusement as he walked the ramparts during one of the evening's training exercises. If Rozellene could see him now, all tangled up in the cook's skirts, she'd laugh her head off - and probably say something to the effect of "I told you so."

As annoying as she could be, Rylen wished he could hear her say it in person. At the same time, he praised the Maker that she would be safe in Skyhold for this battle. Even if she didn't realize it, Rylen knew why Cullen had left her in charge - to ensure a solid replacement commander and advisor should the current Inquisition commander and captain fall during the assault. Not a happy thought, but a necessary contingency nonetheless.

Training extended late into the night, and by the end, his normal lyrium cravings had intensified to the point of tremors in his hands and weakness in his legs. He dismissed the soldiers and headed back to his quarters, heavy with the knowledge that, whether he liked it or not, he would have to increase his dosage for the assault.

One more sacrifice for the good of the cause.

He barely had the energy to clean up before tumbling into bed. Then, he sighed at the futility of cleaning up at all as the cold sweats took over, soaking him all over again along with his clothes and his bedlinens. His closed his eyes and tried to force himself to sleep, but as usual, his brain galloped along even as his body shut down.

He grimaced into the dark. His current predicament served as an unwelcome reminder of struggle that awaited him when he decreased his dosage after the assault. Maybe... maybe that would be a good time to attempt getting off lyrium for good? If he had to suffer, why not make it count? He could talk to Cullen after the assault and ask for advice on how best to deal with the symptoms...

Then again, perhaps he wouldn't survive the assault, so it wouldn't matter. More happy thoughts.

That was life under the constant yoke of addiction. He spent his days carrying out his duties with sharp logic and problem-solving skills, but as the choke hold on his emotions and fears eased into raw, bruised awareness each night, he delved ever deeper into the reality of his life choices. It felt like a knife to the gut to realize that the very thing that had given him purpose for more than fifteen years had also strangled any possibility of true depth of feeling.

The events of the day flashed through his head in quick succession - training with Jacques, learning of Jacques' lie and the sting that came along with that, fighting and then gloriously, _magnificently_ making up with Trice, and then training again with soldiers, many of whom wouldn't be alive this time next week... possibly including himself.

He tried to pin down a thought, a feeling, but everything rushed in on him as it did every night, each emotion vying for supremacy in a never-ending race. Someday, he would have to wrangle the mess into something manageable, but not tonight.

Tonight, he would lie in his bed and sweat and tremble and curse his own weakness.

Tonight, he would hazily focus on the good, the pleasurable, and attempt to forget the cost of his fetters.

Tonight, he would strive to dream of cinnamon skin, flashing black eyes, and the sound of his name spilling from her lips into his ravenous mouth.

 

**

 

Rylen must have fallen asleep at some point, because he awoke to a soft thud against his door and a subsequent sound of something scuffing across stone. Curiosity overtaking his weakness and exhaustion, he pulled on a shirt and stuck his head out the door in time to see a flutter of white disappear up the stairs.

Rylen frowned at the hurried, almost frantic footsteps echoing off the stairwell wall. It sounded like the slapping of bare feet against stone.

Quickly pulling on his boots, he left his room and cautiously looked up the stairs. The sight of a long, black braid and a familiar backside set him into motion even as his gut twisted with sudden concern. He increased his pace, taking the stairs three at a time.

His heart pounded against his ribcage as he crested the stairs to find her already halfway across the middle level of the keep. He started after her, the twisting in his gut solidifying into a potent sense of foreboding. It grew with each passing second, and he picked up his pace, suddenly desperate to reach her... but still wary enough of her intentions to remain silent. She ran right toward the battlements, and he could hear her breathing heavily, almost like sobbing.

Instead of stopping at the wall or turning to run down the rampart, however, she began climbing into the thin crenel.

Rylen's heart stopped for a split second, both mind and body reeling with shock and disbelief. As the realization of her intentions set in, however, he burst into a desperate sprint.

"Trice!" he shouted, his voice breaking on her name. "Trice, stop!"

His cry set off an echo along the battlements as guards came alert. But none were close to where she now stood up precariously on the wall. He watched in growing horror as her foot lifted and began to descend into nothingness.

Just as Trice began to fall forward, Rylen's body slammed to a halt against the parapet wall, and he frantically grabbed for her nightgown. Catching the thin fabric in his fist, he yanked her back as hard as he could and was instantly punished by the gut-wrenching sound of ripping fabric.

She teetered at the edge for a heartstopping moment, and he adjusted his footing, scrambling for a firmer hold on the edges of the fabric. He tugged again, more carefully but no less desperately. She wobbled... and then slowly tipped backward before clumsily falling into his waiting arms.

He had no time to process his relief as she immediately began fighting against his hold. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face contorted with distress.

"No!" she slurred. "Le' go! Have to... have to stop it..."

She tried to free herself from Rylen's grasp, but he easily countered her sloppy and uncoordinated movements. Looking at her closely, his eyes widened as he realized the truth.

She was Maker-damned _asleep_.

Still holding her tightly, he dropped to the ground as confusion and frustration mingled with the shaky relief now infusing his limbs. Had her dreams always led to sleepwalking, or was this something new?

"Trice!" he pleaded. "Trice, love, you have to wake up now."

He shook her lightly, trying to bring her out of the dream, but she only struggled more violently. A few guards had arrived by this time, and Rylen ignored their gawking even as he barked out orders.

"Someone get me water! The rest of you, back to your stations! This is no concern of yours."

"No, please," she whimpered. "Must... save... save... Rylen."

He stiffened slightly at his name, and a surprised murmur arose from the guards. He shook her again, more forcefully this time.

"I'm here, Trice! You need only wake to find me."

With a final shake, the dream seemed to leave her, and she lay still for a single, blissful moment. Then, her eyes flew open, and she renewed her struggle.

"Rylen!" she cried out, tears gathering in her eyes.

"Here! I'm right here, love!"

Her eyes flew to his face followed quickly by both her shaking hands. Without another word, she surged forward, flung her arms around his neck and burst into great, wrenching sobs.

"I dreamed..." she gasped, "...oh, Rylen, thank the Maker..."

Unwilling to have an audience for the remainder of their conversation, Rylen slid his arms under her and stood up. At his glare, the guards finally scurried off to their rightful posts. He met the guard who had fetched the water on the way down the stairs, and Rylen silently nodded toward his own door, indicating the young man should leave the bucket in Rylen's room.

He wasn't ashamed or reluctant for anyone to know about himself and Trice. He just hoped she felt the same because after that display the guards would no doubt infer that their captain and cook were sharing a bed. And in this case they'd be right. He had no intention of letting her out of his sight tonight.

It would be all over the keep by dawn.

He'd never cared much about gossip either way. However, the newly emerging possessive side of him felt a sliver of satisfaction that everyone would _know_. Funny, that, considering he'd actively avoided such things for most of his life. But then again, hadn't he already established that Trice Valera was the exception to all his rules?

Trice had calmed down by the time he gently laid her on his bed and lit the lamp at his bedside. She sat up, swinging her feet to the floor, and looked around, clearly bewildered.

"What... what happened?"

"I could ask you the same thing, lass," he replied in a rough voice. "I woke to a thud and scuffling in the hallway and luckily decided to investigate. If I hadn't, you'd be dashed to pieces on the rocks outside the keep by now."

He hadn't meant to be so crude, but as his body recovered from the surge of terror, the ensuing clarity of thought brought to bear the reality of what had almost happened. What he'd almost lost. His heart leapt into his throat at a sudden flash of images - retrieving her broken body, trying to explain the loss to her children... living out the rest of his days without her.

His knees, already shaky from the lack of lyrium, gave out completely. Kneeling before her, he rested his forehead on her knees, suddenly finding it difficult to draw air into his lungs. His hands gripped at her calves to keep from completely falling to the floor, and her hands immediately dug into his hair. He could feel the tremor of those slender, callused fingers as they kneaded against his scalp.

He didn't know how long they stayed that way, but finally, his breathing calmed and the lyrium-induced body aches brought him back to himself enough to speak. The words scraped through his throat and out of his parched mouth by sheer force of will alone.

"Maker, you almost..." He inhaled a shuddering breath. "What _happened,_ Trice?"

"I was trying to get to you," she explained weakly. "The dream told me I had to..."

Her hands untangled from his hair, and he lifted his head to find them covering her face. Sorrow squeezed between her fingers, streaming down her hands and arms.

"It told me I needed to jump to get to you in time," she sobbed. "It told me I'd be able to save you if I... if I would only jump to the other side."

At her words, a new and more potent sense of dread welled up inside him. Rylen clenched his teeth and climbed up to sit beside her on the bed. He gently grasped her wrists, pulled her hands from her mottled face and ducked his head to catch her eye.

" _Who?_ Who told you?"

"The voice," she whispered brokenly, her eyes sliding away from his intense gaze. "It keeps getting stronger... calls me 'little seer.'"

A cold trickle of fear dripped down his spine and into the ever-widening pool of dread. He slowly wrapped his arms around her while his mind, already taxed by earlier events, raced out of control. _What had taken hold of her? A demon? What did it want? How could he protect her from a foe he couldn't see and she could only experience in her dreams?_

"I need to know everything, Trice. Is this... normal?"

"No!" she cried out, pulling back from him. Her hands found his cheeks, and she peered up at him, sincerity written across her features. "No, it's not normal. It's never been like this before, but... but it's getting worse. After I told Stroud of my dream, things calmed down for a couple of days, but lately..." She inhaled shakily. "Lately I've been waking up on the floor or sitting at the table or even... even trying to open the door. And the dreams..."

Rylen swallowed harshly, knowing at least some of what was coming. "The dreams are about me this time?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, her eyes glazing over as they dropped to his tattooed chin. "I'm in a massive fortress - a place at least four times the size of this keep. Probably bigger. I keep climbing stairs, running along battlements, getting lost in a labyrinth of interior rooms. It's always different. No two nights are the same. But it always ends the same."

Her eyes met his once more, and the pain he read there cut at him even as he dreaded the words she might speak. He steeled his raging mind and nodded for her to continue.

"I am running, and finally, I come to an open-air courtyard. In the center is a massive green cloud. In the middle of the shining, shifting cloud, a hazy, unnatural world peeks through. All around, Wardens and Inquisition soldiers fight together against the demons that emerge from the cloud-"

"Ahh... a rift, then."

She blinked at him and then nodded. "Yes, a... a rift. Into the Fade. But bigger. More powerful than a normal... rift." Her trembling voice dropped into a pained whisper. "That's where Stroud will die."

Rylen's chest constricted with the strength of his need to deny it. Stroud would not die. Even if her dreams _were_ premonitions, any number of things might occur to alter the events. He would take it as a warning, as Stroud himself had done, but he couldn't let himself believe it.

Stroud would _not_ die.

"I try to find you. I know I have to get to you before... then I see you. You're standing along the far wall near some stairs talking with a man dressed in red and gold and a helm shaped like a lion."

Rylen's eyes widened at the accurate description of the commander. She could have heard about his armor from others, of course, but still...

"You have your back to the rift, and as you raise your hand to point to the stairs, a shimmer moves behind you. I try to call out and run to you, but I'm too late." Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. "Always too late." Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Before I can reach you, a person emerges out of nothing and shoves a knife into your back. The commander runs him through, of course, but it's too late. Too late." She grasped at his shirt as fresh tears formed in her eyes. "Promise me you'll be careful," she warbled in a guttural tone. "Promise you'll be aware. Don't ever turn your back to the rift, Rylen. _Promise me._ "

Swallowing hard, Rylen nodded and said the words out loud. "I promise."

He'd said the words more to comfort her than anything else. Yet he couldn't help filing away the information in the recesses of his memory. As Stroud had said, if she truly had a gift, he shouldn't take it for granted.

Trice let out a long sigh of relief and burrowed her face into his neck. He closed his eyes and just held her, his body reveling in the feel of her safe and solid and _alive_ in his arms. His mind, however, rebelled against the troubling conclusions obvious even in his muddled state.

Trice was a mage. She had to be.

Maker preserve him. How was he to deal with this? As a templar, he'd have sent her to the Circle, but in her case - a weak mage with no discernable outward power but connected enough to the Fade to be at the mercy of demons - many of his colleagues would have given her the brand with little compunction.

Tranquility had never sat right with him, and he thanked the Maker that he was no longer obligated to follow the dictates of the Order. But even with all his templar training and many years of experience with strange magic, he was at a loss how to handle this singular case. In reality, if her visions were easily controlled and she had no outward signs of magic, she likely wouldn't have been pinpointed as a mage at all.

Which meant cases like hers probably weren't that unusual. It had been difficult enough to find the full-fledged mages and take them to the Circle. Weak mages? Ones with abilities easily hidden or not recognized as mage-like at all? Impossible. Although, it did explain those rare cases of immediate family vehemently denying a person being a mage even after said "non mage" had ravaged half a village as an abomination.

Rylen cringed internally as emotions flared - fear, doubt, guilt. They crowded his thoughts even as he tried to clear his mind and think through the problem logically. _Andraste's flaming sword!_ He felt so fucking helpless. And afraid... for Trice, for himself, for the soldiers in his care.

Pushing back on the surge of emotion, he forced himself to focus. He could fix this. He just needed to _think_.

She'd said that the visions had begun when she was a child, but the dreams... the dreams had only started since she arrived in the Approach. Sparse in those first weeks, they'd only interrupted her sleep occasionally, but with each passing week, the dreams had become more intense and more disruptive.

"You said the sleepwalking only began recently?" he murmured into her hair.

She nodded. "Only this past week. I've never done that before, and I..." Her voice broke. "I don't know what's happening."

He tightened his hold on her. "That's what I'm trying to figure out, love. You also said the dreams didn't start until you arrived here. How often did your visions come to you before that?"

"N-not often. Most of the time, they only disturb me when I'm highly emotional. If I let my thoughts turn dark... or if I experience a great loss..."

She trailed off, and he hummed thoughtfully as he absently stroked a hand down her back. She shuddered in his arms and then suddenly sat up and away from him.

"Oh, Maker! The children! I have to check on them!"

"Alright," he said, not missing a beat as he stood up on weak limbs and pulled her up along with him.

She wobbled at first, her legs unsteady from her scare, but after a moment she stood firm, her eyes darting to his door. Rylen took hold of her hand and began walking toward the door.

"We'll check on them, make sure they're safe and then come back here," he explained softly.

She'd begun walking with him but stopped in his open doorway at his declaration. "You want me to... stay with you?"

"As if I'd let you out of my sight tonight," he replied with a wry chuckle. Then, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his voice turned serious. "I won't chance it, love. Not when I can still picture clear as day you ready to hop off a parapet to your death."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I can't believe... did you... did anyone get hurt?"

"No, no. I caught hold of you before you... fell. No one else was around for that." He huffed out another dry laugh. "They all came running like chickens at feeding time when I shouted your name, though."

She cracked a wan smile, but it faltered immediately. Instead of speaking, he silently inclined his head toward the other end of the hall, beckoning her with a raised brow and a tug on her hand. She smiled again, wider this time and nodded.

They walked hand in hand down the hall until her door came into view. It stood wide open. Trice gasped, dropped his hand and ran into the room. Rylen followed closely, and by the light of the torch in the hall, he made out a small lump in one of the cots. Clara.

The other cot was empty.

Alarmed, Rylen turned to Trice... only to find her standing over her bed and lifting a blanket higher over Jacques' prone body. She then quietly padded over to check on Clara. The girl remained still as the dead as Trice pressed a kiss to her forehead and then moved past him to the door. He followed and watched her bend down to pick up the key just inside the doorway. She stared at it for a long moment before closing the door and locking it behind them.

"The things children can sleep through," she whispered in a half horrified, half wondrous tone. "I... I _unlocked the door_ in my sleep."

Rylen could think of nothing encouraging to say to that, so despite the chilling effect of her words, he remained silent while he placed a reassuring hand on her lower back and gently pushed her toward his room. When she resisted, however, he turned to her, his expression overtly quizzical. She sighed and looked down, her fingers worrying the key in her hands.

"Rylen, are you... are you sure you want... this? I don't know what's happening, but I do know that even if it gets better - even if it goes back to how it was - it will never go away completely. It's a part of me, and-"

Rylen stepped forward and took her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. He stared into her eyes, and the conflicting emotions quieted to a single moment of clarity.

"It's like this. I care about you, lass. It doesn't matter to me if you're being harassed by a demon or if you're half demon yourself. For tonight, I'm not letting you out of my sight. Let's save the serious talk for when we've both gotten a little more sleep, eh?"

She sucked in a little breath and closed her eyes. A tear escaped her wet lashes, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. When she opened her eyes again, she gave him a wobbly smile and nodded.

They walked back to his room hand-in-hand. He quietly took her key from her, set it on his desk, and then led her to his bed. Once she'd scooted to the wall, he blew out the lamp and climbed in after her.

It wasn't a particularly big bed, and even with her curled on her side, his arm encroached on her space as he lay there on his back. He hadn't voluntarily slept in the same bed with a woman in fifteen years, so the etiquette of bed sharing escaped him.

"Rylen, I need to tell you-"

"I thought we agreed to save the serious talk for tomorrow?"

She was silent for so long, he thought she might have drifted off, but then her agonized whisper cut through the darkness straight to his heart.

"I'm afraid to go to sleep."

 _Etiquette be damned._ He rolled to his side and wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her against him. She let out breathy laugh of surprise but immediately wrapped her free arm around his shoulder. Their foreheads nearly touched as they rested their heads on his single pillow.

"This way, I'll wake up if you try to leave my bed," he explained, his voice low and smooth.

"Ah... I suppose that is a good plan, Captain." Her nose brushed against his, and even that brief contact set his tired body to humming. "But shall I suggest another?"

"I'm all ears, lass," he breathed.

"Let's don't sleep."

And with that, her soft lips pressed into his. He inhaled shakily through his nose as goosebumps erupted all over his body and a spike of pure lust set his insides on fire. After the initial press, she brushed her mouth over his in demanding strokes, their lips massaging, pulling and caressing until she flicked her tongue across his lower lip. He nipped at that tongue, delving deeper with each pass, their breaths echoing heavy and wanting in the cool darkness of the desert night.

"I've been thinking of this all day," he growled into her mouth.

She only hummed out a needy whimper in response as his free hand traveled up and down her back in long, luscious strokes. All the feelings he'd pushed back earlier surfaced now, but instead of succumbing to the cacophony, he used it to fuel the fire roaring in his veins.

He would protect her. None would possess her but him - no other man and certainly no demon. His hand trembled with pent-up need as he began searching for a way into her sleeping clothes.

Everything came to a halt when he found the rip near her upper thighs. Trice gave a little gasp, her lips breaking from his at the unexpected skin-to-skin contact.

"What...?"

"It's how I kept you from... falling," he replied softly to her implied question.

He couldn't tell if the gravel in his voice came more from the lust pumping through his veins or the surge of emotion at the reminder of all he might have lost. She reached back to examine the tear with her own hand and hummed out her disapproval at the ragged edges she found. Then, their fingers entwined over the heated skin of her upper thighs, and he sucked in a surprised gasp when she roughly guided his hand upwards.

"Let's not think about that," she murmured before kissing him soundly once more.

Then she sat up and shimmied away from him. Before he could express concern or dismay, he felt the whoosh of the cotton gown as it flew over him and onto the floor.

His chuckle at her eagerness turned into a moan as she grabbed his hand and pressed it to her soft breast. Then she tugged at him to sit up and pulled frantically at his shirt. He caught her hand, concern rushing back to tamp down on his lust. He pulled her into an embrace, forcing her to still.

"No need to rush," he murmured in her ear. "We've got time."

"I just... I need..."

"I know," he whispered as he began kissing down her delectable neck. "I know. Let me please you. Let me woo you, love."

He slid his hands up and down her bare back in comforting strokes before letting a hand slide further down to her waist, her outer thigh, the back of her knee.

"All this soft skin... You're making me wish I hadn't blown out that lamp," he muttered into her shoulder.

"Then light it again, you daft man," she responded cheekily.

She gasped as he lightly bit her collarbone in retribution. "As you wish, your highness."

She laughed outright, giving him a playful slap on the hand that had come to rest on her thigh, and his concern melted away. With a groan he pulled away from her and hastily relit the lamp. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned around.

All the air left his lungs in a great rush, and he stilled in awe at the glorious sight before him. For a long moment, he could only stare, his eyes hungrily memorizing every feature. Her tawny cheeks were flushed with passion, and the tips of those luscious breasts he'd worshipped earlier that afternoon - just slightly darker than her cinnamon skin - tightened under his gaze. Dark curls peeked from between thick, lovely thighs, and expanses of skin - arms, belly, legs - beckoned for his touch, his lips.

She finally raised her eyes to his, and it was the doubt swimming in their depths that set him in motion once more. He raised a hand and smoothed it from her shoulder, down her arm to her thigh, and then up again, skimming over her round belly to cup a full, beautiful breast.

"You are the loveliest thing I've ever seen in my life, Trice," he murmured as he leaned forward and kissed her slowly. "Everything about you is perfect."

Her hands fisted into his shirt, and she kissed him back fiercely. When he pulled back, he was distressed to find tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said with watery laugh as she motioned to the paler lines crossing her belly and hips. "I thought I could be brave about it, but I just... you don't have to... I mean the stretch marks are... I know they aren't very appealing."

Rylen raised a brow. "Are you calling me a liar, lass?"

Startled, she blinked once before vehemently shaking her head. "No! No, I just mean you don't have to-"

He cut her off with another kiss and scooted closer, wrapping her up in his arms. "I mean every word I say. Every part of you is beautiful to me. Am I to think you're lying if you say you think my scarred body is beautiful? And you'll see that it is scarred, love. Quite badly. But each mark is a story, an event, that led us here. I love them all for that alone, but more than that I-"

Rylen cut off abruptly as the truth of where his words were leading hit him. His mouth dropped open, and he blinked at her.

It couldn't be true. Not this soon. Didn't it take months... maybe years for that kind of affection to build? Not that he had any experience with... that, but she'd arrived less than two months ago. They'd been friendly for barely more than a month. He couldn't... he couldn't have...

A burning in his lungs told him he'd stopped breathing at some point, and he sucked in a deep breath. Trice, confused by his sudden silence, cocked her head to the side and gave him a questioning look. He let out a wooden laugh.

"I think you're perfect... for me... in every way," he finally finished, pressing a kiss to each cheek while he spoke and then kissing her full on the mouth at the end.

"And you for me," she agreed dreamily, her smile wide and genuine as she gazed up at him.

He tried to push back on the feeling, but instead of diminishing with his splash of cold logic, the feeling grew stronger. He kissed her long and slow, each pass of his mouth deepening into languorous stroking of his tongue against hers as he pulled her into his lap. She reached under his shirt, and the skin on skin contact sent sparks flying behind his eyes. She stroked eager hands over his chest, abs and back, and his blood burned hotter.

Although the electricity shimmering between them urged him onward, he restrained his movements. Only when he had her panting in his lap did he oblige her by removing the shirt. He leaned forward to claim her lips again, but she held him back with hands on his shoulders.

"My turn," she murmured in a low, sensuous tone.

He shivered as her hands repeated her previous motions, but slower and more thorough. Her fingers skimmed over his chest, pausing to gently trace his scars and comb through his rather sparse chest hair. When they reached his waist, she paused with a little intake of breath.

"What's this?"

He couldn't feel the gentle whisper of her fingers over the scarred skin, but he could see where her hand rested. His heart, already beating wildly with passion, spiked into a quicker beat as a sliver of self-consciousness struck at him. He'd never cared much about it before, but then... he'd never cared much about the women he'd bedded until now.

Eager to have it done with, he quickly stood up, tugged at the tie to his pants, eased them over his painfully hard cock and then let them drop to the floor. He turned his left side toward the lamp, and she gasped as she took in the full measure of his mangled body.

"Oh... Rylen!"

The burn extended from his waist, down his left leg, and slightly past his knee. A gnarled and hairless mass, it stood in stark contrast to the normal skin surrounding it. He'd long ago gotten used to the sight, but he understood how it looked to others. She reached out to touch it, but then drew her hand back and looked up into his face.

"Told you I had my own scars," he joked, but his voice came out rough and raw.

"Does it... does it hurt?"

"Nay, lass. 'Tis an old wound." He could hear his brogue thicken as the memories surfaced. Strange how old memories he'd thought long dead seemed all the more potent to his lyrium-deprived mind. "The tower burned with us inside it. We were'na ta leave, but we'd have perished had we not. Earned this scorcher when I got pinned under a burnin' support beam while tryin' ta get the mages out. A force mage took pity on me and freed me, though she coulda left me ta burn."

He watched her glide a hand over the ugly whorls of mutilated skin. He couldn't feel it, but he swallowed hard and his cock jerked in anticipation when her fingers drifted away from the scar to the smooth, sensitive skin of his pelvis.

"I do think your body is beautiful," she whispered, her eyes focused on the part of him aching for her.

He couldn't bite back the guttural curse that passed over his lips when those fingers gently circled the based of his cock and skimmed teasingly up to the tip. All thoughts of scars and old traumas melted away as Trice smiled up at him wickedly, and he let out a breathless chuckle at the almost predatory gleam in her eyes. She took his hand as she pulled him down to the bed.

"Talking and wooing is for tomorrow," she whispered. "Tonight, I want to ride you until you come harder than you ever have in your life."

She pushed him down into the mattress, and he sucked in a breath of thanksgiving as she threw her leg over his waist and straddled his hips. His cock jerked again at the feel of her curls teasing across the heated skin.

She leaned down to kiss him while her hand reached between them to take hold of his straining shaft, and he groaned. His hands flew to her sides and massaged her fleshy hips and thighs, eager to touch every part of her he could.

She kissed him hard, rubbing her wet folds over his length, and he moaned again at the explosion of sensation through his limbs and centering in his spine. Then, she raised herself up... and suddenly, he was enveloped in her hot, wet heat. The feeling of her surrounding him so unexpectedly left him momentarily dumbstruck, but then she began to move, her walls squeezing him with each plunge.

"You wicked little wench," he growled in the breaks between heady kisses. "You already had your way with me this afternoon."

She just laughed breathlessly and then moaned. The sound reverberated through him, pleasure building with every undulation of her body. She rose up suddenly, arching back and digging her fingers into his thighs as another low moan tumbled from her lips while she slid up and down his cock.

"Fuck," he muttered as he stared up at her in awe.

It was without a doubt the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen - Trice, back arched, breasts bouncing, jaw hanging open as she gasped for air and let out sexy little whimpers all while riding him. A surge of pleasure threatened to send him over the edge, and he squeezed his eyes shut to forestall the eminent explosion.

He prided himself on pleasuring women before his taking his own. He hadn't lost control since he was a teenager. But twice now, she'd pushed him to the edge so quickly, he'd needed to actively tamp down on his urges.

" _Fuck_ ," he muttered again, louder this time.

"Good?" she panted.

"Good? Lass, I'm doing my best to stay grounded right now. You feel so..."

His words trailed off, determined to show rather than tell. He pushed his thumb into the thatch of ebony curls between her legs. Drunk on his own pleasure, he fumbled slightly before finding that elusive bundle of nerves and stroking her while his other hand massaged her breast, teasing the hardened peak.

"Yes... oh, yes... like that..." she encouraged through panting moans.

Tired of playing the passive role, Rylen suddenly sat up, slid his hand from her breast to the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. Tongues and lips and teeth clashed through their huffing breaths while his other hand continued to work her, sliding through the dripping wetness and rubbing over and around the center of her pleasure.

She gasped in pleasure when he rubbed a particular spot, so he circled it before firmly rubbing over her clit again. She cried out, and he felt her inner walls clench around him.

"Maker preserve me," he murmured into her mouth as he kept up the motion.

She cried out again, her hands flying around him to claw at his back. Her fingernails dug into his skin as she rocked frantically into him, and the sudden mixture of pleasure and pain combined with his exhaustion to doom him.

"Trice," he groaned out. " _Fuck_. I'm sorry... I..."

He thrust up into her violently as white light exploded in his vision, and all the pressure coiling at the base of his spine released in a sudden, exquisite riot of pleasure. He tried to hold on for her, but the waves pleasure hit him again and again, leaving him shuddering, boneless and very nearly insensible.

He revived to find himself sprawled out on the bed, Trice laying on top of him, panting into his neck and shuddering as her walls clenched around his softening cock. He lifted a heavy arm to smooth his hand across her back, scared to hope that she'd perhaps found her pleasure in those late moments as well.

"Did you... did you come, love?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yessss," she exhaled dreamily.

Rylen let out a sigh of relief and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. Simultaneous orgasms, rare as they were, still counted in his book.

"Maker... you'll be the death of me, yet," he teased.

"Why, because I give good sex?" she teased back.

Rylen laughed. "Yes. The best. By Andraste's burning pyre, I've never had better."

"Me neither," she whispered into his neck before kissing it softly.

He basked in the afterglow of their love making, lazily stroking her soft back, until practicality demanded action. She grumbled sleepily when he gently slid her to her side and got out of bed, but when he came back with a cool, damp cloth and began sliding it over her sweaty skin, she changed her tune.

"Mmmm... That feels good."

She tried to take the cloth from him, but he snatched it away and rinsed it in the bucket of water the guard had brought. He cleaned her body using slow, sensual strokes, and then tended to himself when she was clean. When he came back to bed, he doused the lamp once more, laid on his back and pulled her nearly on top of him.

"Now, then. I'd have to be dead or unconscious not to feel you move out of this bed."

She gave a wry, throaty chuckle. "That's reassuring."

"I don't plan to be either of those things any time soon."

"Good," she replied quietly. "I'd like to request that you avoid it for as long as possible, please."

Having no wish to introduce empty promises into this quiet moment of satiation and peace, he didn't respond. They still had much to talk about, but during the past two days, he felt as though he'd finally broken through the walls she'd constructed around herself. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say she'd opened the door for him. He knew the walls still existed, and he could respect that. The trick would be to keep himself in that coveted position of invited guest, and making promises he couldn't keep would do him no favors in that regard.

As he lay there staring into the darkness, his head and heart overflowed with foolish wishes and even more foolish words that his tongue wanted to spit out without his permission. He'd always been open and honest with people about where he stood, and hiding something of this magnitude seemed wrong.

But speaking these feelings out loud - new and untested as they were - that seemed downright dangerous. They hadn't talked about their pasts or their reasons for avoiding relationships, yet, though he had pieced together the gist of her story. She would need to know the truth about his condition and what it could lead to before he would say anything of his feelings.

They would talk. Tomorrow.

"Goodnight, darling," Trice mumurred in his ear.

His heart swelled, leaving him breathless. "Goodnight, love."

Tightening his arms around her, Rylen breathed in her scent and memorized the way her naked skin felt against his. He couldn't feel part of her because she was draped over his left side, but her soft breasts pressing into his rib cage, her arm thrown across his stomach, her knee resting on his right thigh, her cheek lying on his shoulder - he could feel every other point of contact. Even her breath fanning across his neck became a source of almost meditative focus. The aches and pains that had begun seeping back in fell to the background as his mind bent fully on the project of learning her down to her nightly breathing pattern.

It probably wasn't healthy, this focus bordering on obsession. But it staved off the worst of the tremors, and eventually, he fell into a deep sleep.


	20. The reckoning, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Rylen come to an understanding.

Consciousness slid into her blessedly dreamless sleep via the faint sound of snoring and the delicious heat at her back. As she became more aware of her surroundings, however, the blissful contentment morphed into confusion and brief panic. She froze, trying to remember how she'd ended up in such an unfamiliar place.

A sudden flood of memories - finding exquisite pleasure with him inside her, drifting to sleep with his arms around her and his steady heartbeat in her ear - quieted her panic almost before it began. She relaxed into the bed once again and savored the wall of heat at her back as the chill of the desert night nipped at her skin.

They'd shifted during the night. She lay on her side, facing the wall, and Rylen's body curved around hers in a protective cocoon. His arm draped heavily over her middle, and her skin prickled to life at the feel of his breath on her neck. Before she could get too lost in the sensations, however, additional memories - darker memories - of the previous night pushed her further into wakefulness and tempered her reaction.

Andraste's bloody sword, she'd nearly _jumped from the walls to her death_!

Instead of following her agitated body's directive to leap out of bed and begin pacing, she forced herself to remain still. However, she couldn't quite stifle the tiny gasp that escaped her lips as the horror - too raw to process the night before - now reached out to grip her in its icy claws.

How could she ever trust herself again? How could she _sleep_ again? As tempting as it sounded, Rylen couldn't watch over her every night. He often left the keep for days at a time, and though she prayed the Maker would forbid it, the coming assault meant he might never return to her.

She grimaced and turned her face into the mattress at the thought. Questions buzzed around her brain like agitated bees, each one delivering a stinging truth. What if they never found out what was causing her nightmares? Would she have to leave the keep? Leave the safety of the Inquisition? Would she even survive? And what would happen to Jacques and Clara if she weren't there to protect them?

She gritted her teeth and fought against the despair threatening to overwhelm her. Long ago, her mother had tried to teach her about the visions, but as a child, Trice had only ever wanted to ignore them and pretend to be normal.

Then, when her mother died, Trice had no one to ask, even if she wanted to. She knew virtually nothing about her mother's family - besides her grandmother's oft-repeated lament that the connection was a taint on the family line - but she did know that her mother's mother had been Rivaini. And growing up in Antiva with a thorough schooling in local history and culture, she knew what that meant.

She'd always known, really. It had just taken the taunting of a voice in her nightmares to force her to fully accept it. But now... who could help her untangle this mess of ignorance she'd allowed herself to steep in for decades?

She would have to start by talking to Rylen. He had only promised her last night, but he'd also admitted that he cared about her. She would have to trust that he would help her with this - or at least guide her to someone who could help. Trust didn't come easily for her, but she remembered the guard he'd posted outside her door when he'd first learned of her nightmares. If he'd cared enough to worry about her then, what more would he do to protect her now?

_Now that you're sleeping with him, you mean?_

She nearly hissed aloud at the destructive and fear-driven inner voice that had ruled so much of her life up to now. Whatever had happened between them yesterday, Rylen's feelings weren't only about the sex. She felt that in her bones. He might not wish to continue their relationship - such as it was - after their talk, but either way, she _did_ trust that he wouldn't leave her to face this on her own.

Rylen stirred behind her, the arm resting on her waist suddenly trembling as if he were holding a heavy weight. He inhaled deeply and on the exhale let out a slight whimper. A moment later, his entire body tensed, and she knew he'd woken in much the same state she had.

"Trice?" he croaked.

"Yes, it's me," she whispered.

He removed his arm, which still trembled alarmingly. Trice tried to turn, but he placed a firm hand to her back to keep her in place.

"No," he uttered distractedly, his voice full of gravel. "I need... just... just give me a moment."

Trice's concern ratcheted higher as she felt the bed frame tremble with his effort to rise from the bed. She quietly put a hand over her mouth to keep her worried words at bay, though she filed away the questions for later. He'd asked for a moment, and she would give it to him... no matter how badly she wanted to help him.

She heard a match strike against the table, and the room, previously black except for the dim strip of dawn light seeping under the door, burst into golden warmth. Still, she kept her back to him, giving him the privacy he'd asked for. After the rustle of fabric - probably him donning clothing - the desk drawer slid open, and the sound of something being placed on the desk filled the silence between them.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Just need... just a moment."

More sounds of metal clinking against glass rent through the early morning stillness, and Trice bit at her lip, her eyes widening, as she realized what was happening. She'd never been with a templar before, but she knew they took lyrium. It must be what he was doing now.

The state he was in, though... she should have seen it earlier. The night they'd nearly kissed, he'd been in poor shape, but she'd thought it a result of the hard battle with the Venatori. And last night, he'd trembled under her, but she'd selfishly believed it all a reaction to her.

She'd seen the various stages of addiction and withdrawal with a few of her staff members who'd gotten sucked into the underworld of Val Royeaux. She'd nursed one of her friends through giving up a particularly bad habit only to lose her weeks later when the allure of the drug proved too much to resist.

Tears pricked at Trice's eyes, but she forced them back. She harbored a slim hope that he might let her help him with the symptoms, but any show of pity or concern would ruin her chances of that.

Amazing how much she knew of him after only a few weeks.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Trice nearly turned around. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat down, and she finally gave in to the urge.

Keeping the blanket tucked around her, she turned and sat up to find him perched on the edge of the bed. He'd put on pants, low-slung and barely tied, but remained bare-chested. His hair, still mussed from sleep, gave him a disheveled look that would be alluring at any other time, but it was the small glass he held in his shaking hand that ultimately caught her attention. He didn't look at her but rather kept his eyes fixed on the vial when he spoke.

"You should know that, even if I live through all the Inquisition throws at me, I'll probably go mad one day."

Trice's mouth dropped open at the blunt statement, and a sharp pain stabbed through her chest. Her previous thoughts were thrown into turmoil, and she spoke the only words that came to mind.

"What do you mean?" she asked in a tentative whisper.

He finally looked away from the full vial, his expression pained. "I mean I've seen it. Templars who stay on lyrium too long... they go mad." His whole body shuddered, and perspiration gleamed on his forehead even though the chill of the desert night hung in the air. "It might be too late for me already."

And even as he looked back to the vial in his hand with an expression bordering on disgust, there was a hunger there, too. Words and snippets of conversation came back to her, and a light dawned in the depths of her consciousness.

"This is what you were talking about when you said things in your life would make a relationship difficult?"

He nodded, his eyes glazing over, the vial slowly coming to rest on his thigh as his arm succumbed to the weight of gravity. "They told us about the powers and the increased strength and stamina. They prepared us for the way our bodies would change and admonished us that we'd need to continue the doses to keep up our new strengths." He laughed bitterly, the sound barely more than the choking of a drowning man. "I was 21 when I saw first-hand what even a few days without lyrium would do to a person. I wasn't meant to see it, but..."

His voice broke, and he paused, clearly battling with the memories. Her heart shattered for him, for his struggle. She wanted to wrap her body around his in a comforting embrace, but she feared he wouldn't continue if she distracted him. He clearly wanted - perhaps needed - to speak of these things. After a moment of silence, he continued.

"Zora was her name. We were... I was the reason for her punishment, so I snuck in to see her, to comfort her if I could. I'll never forget it. So much pain and suffering. All for a damned misguided infatuation."

"I should have quit then," he ground out through gritted teeth. "I entered templar training later than most, at 15, so I'd only taken my vows the year before. But I couldn't bear the thought of returning to my family, tail between my legs. So I stayed. Because of my damn foolish pride, I stayed. Not only stayed but became obsessed with proving my worth."

"What... what happened to Zora?" Trice asked tentatively.

"She had been a Knight-Lieutenant, but after they discovered our unsanctioned relationship, they demoted her and transferred her to Ostwick. They also found out I'd gone to see her during her punishment, so after that... after that, they punished _me_ by making it my duty to see to the older templars when they became too _feeble_ to continue their duties." He paused again to draw a shaky breath. "They never told us of the addiction, and they certainly never told us we'd all go looney someday. But I saw too much to think any differently. I've known my fate for more than a decade now. Funny how that's only recently come to bother me."

The way he said the words made it apparent that he didn't think it funny at all. He stared off past the lamp and into the darkness of the far corner of the room as they sat in silence, and Trice's mind raced with the onslaught of new information. She wanted to give him space to speak, but questions crowded her brain. Her curiosity, along with a hefty helping of dread - burned inside her, demanding satiation.

"When do most templars... when do the symptoms begin?"

He sucked in a breath and looked over at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. He blinked, and the glaze in his eyes cleared. However, that only served to emphasize the pain in his gaze as he shrugged.

"Depends on a number of things - how long you've been on lyrium, how much you've increased your dosage as you age... that's another thing the powers that be don't bother to tell you about. As a templar ages, the lyrium becomes less effective. Most have to begin increasing their dosage to maintain their powers and stave off withdrawal."

As soon as the words left his lips, her brain snapped the puzzle pieces together. "But you haven't. You've maintained your original dose all this time. Over, what, 15 years?"

This earned her a wry smile. "Yes. And a fat lot of good it's done me. Every morning it's like this-" His voice held a tinge of disdain as he waved a hand over himself. "-weak as a newborn lamb and twice as shaky."

She frowned. "If you need to... to go ahead and take your dose..."

"Nay. I don't want..."

He stopped again, as if struggling with his words. It was a strange and sad thing to watch - this man, who had always been sharp and ready with a witty comeback, now struggling to put together a sentence. She fought against the sting in her eyes and swallowed down the lump in her throat.

"The lyrium sharpens some senses, but others - feelings, emotions and even memories - it dulls those things. I'm convinced that's why it took me so long to identify the itch under my skin, to deal with what I knew would be my fate. So, you can understand why I don't want to talk about this - about us - without..." His brows furrowed in frustration, but his voice remained even. "I don't want to be in a fog when we speak of these things."

He shook his head, as if to clear away a fog of another kind. "But you asked about timing... I've seen templars twice my age still as clear headed and strong as the day they took their first philter. I've seen others about my age - some younger - taken by the madness. Most end up somewhere in between. I cannot know where I'll fall, but..." He squeezed his eyes closed, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "Recently I've been forgetting things. I lose myself atimes as well. Usually it's only when I've over extended myself, but..."

A small sob escaped her throat, her eyes burning with the effort to hold back the tears. Her hand flew to her mouth as Rylen's eyes popped open.

She'd been right about his reaction all along. Fury burned in the depths of those pain-filled, ice-blue eyes.

"Now you know," he spat at her. "Now you can take yourself away and be glad of your freedom from such a pathetic burden."

Terrified, she reached for him. "Rylen, no!"

"Nay! I don'na need yer pity, lass!"

He tried to rise from the bed, but faltered and ended up sliding to the floor instead. She scrambled after him, and before he could rise from the ground, she slid her naked body into his lap. He let out a small sound of surprise, his eyes colliding with hers as her hands rose to clasp the sides of his head.

"Trice, don't-"

"No! You listen to me!" She panted, a wild fury of her own blooming amongst the terror. "Don't you dare push me away! I won't have it! If this is your life, then we will... we will face it together. But I won't have you making decisions for me as if I'm incapable of understanding how difficult it might be. Do you know why I'm here - here at the keep, I mean?"

His gaze faltered, a sheepish expression momentarily replacing his ire. "A little."

"Then you know I am no stranger to hardship. I have lived a life of lies for nearly six years in order to protect my family. I have lost the man I loved to a senseless war. And before that..." The tears filling her eyes finally burst forth as she closed her eyes at the onslaught of memories. "I was rejected by the people who were supposed to love and care for me. If not for Nellie and Marcel - the support they offered and skills they taught me - I would either be dead... or selling my body on the streets of Val Royeaux."

Rylen's body stiffened under her, and she opened her watery eyes to find him staring at her in shock. She pressed her forehead to his, unable to withstand the intensity of his singular gaze.

"And what of Jacques' father?"

The rawness in his voice didn't escape her, but she honed in on his precise language. He obviously knew more than "a little."

"Jacques' father left me shortly after our boy was born. I haven't heard from him since. And Clara's father..." She bit back another sob. "I had the audacity to love a man of rank after my own ties to nobility had been stripped from me in disgrace. Since his death, I've paid the price for not knowing my place. They want Clara, but I won't let that evil woman have her. Not ever!"

She worked to calm her breathing and then finally pulled away to look at Rylen. He slowly opened his eyes, his expression defeated. However, a spark swam in the depths of those eyes, a light so small she could have missed it were he anyone else. A spark of something like hope.

"And don't forget that I nearly jumped to my death last night because of my terrible nightmares - because I've spent my whole life ignoring a part of myself," she added in a softer tone. A different kind of pain flashed across his face at her words, but she didn't pause long enough for him to speak. "So you see, you have plenty of reason to wish me away from you as well. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to end this... us." She gritted her teeth, pushing back on the emotions threatening to leave her a useless heap of limbs, and focused on holding his piercing gaze. "But only do it if it's what _you_ want - not out of some misguided idea that you're protecting me. We both might be miserable messes, but you've already helped me so much, and I want to try to help you in return... because... because, Rylen, being with you is the first truly _good_ thing to happen to me in _years_."

At that, his pained expression broke into pure agony. He ducked his head and leaned forward to bury his face in her neck, and she gently slid her hands from his cheeks to thread her fingers through his hair. The heat of his tears came first, scalding drops that wet her neck and slid down her chest, but the hiccuping sob that heaved from his lungs nearly tore her in two.

She held onto him as he worked through whatever emotions and pain had led him to this breaking point. His arms, at first lifeless at his sides, eventually rose up to circle around her, holding her to him tightly. And though her heart ached to see him so upset, she couldn't help the sense of calm and rightness at being here with him - being the one to comfort him. Her own emotions quieted, and he followed shortly after.

"Sorry, love," he finally mumbled into her neck. "I believe I've made quite a mess of you."

"Wouldn't be the first... or even the second time."

He exhaled a watery chuckle. "True enough, though the circumstances are just a _bit_ different."

He pulled back, his nose running and eyes puffy, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. He looked around instead, and seeming to find what he was looking for, he grabbed up his night shirt and began wiping at her wet chest.

"Actually," she murmured as she submitted to his ministrations, "it's nice to even things up a bit."

At this, he did meet her gaze, confusion reflecting in his bloodshot eyes. She fought the smile playing about her lips, but couldn't stifle it completely.

"I've cried in your arms enough times since we met. It's about time you returned the favor."

He huffed out a weak laugh, wiping the last of his tears from her skin and then wiping at his face. Once finished, he threw the shirt into a basket in the corner and slouched down against the side of the bed with an exhausted sigh.

"I haven't cried like that, like a wee babe, in..." He grunted, brows raising in surprise as he stared up and the ceiling. "I can't remember the last time. Maybe... maybe not since Zora."

"Sounds like you were long overdue."

"Perhaps you're right. I feel blasted awful, but at the same time... I guess I feel better, too? My body is shite, but my head is clearer than it's been in days, especially at this time of day."

He shrugged, looking down to give her a weak smile. She smiled back and then started to move off his lap, intending to give him space, but his arms quickly came around her to hold her in place. Settling against his broad chest instead, she smiled to herself when she felt his cheek come to rest on her forehead.

"I don't want to lose you," he finally whispered hoarsely into the silence. "I want us... I want to be with you as long as I can."

She pressed her lips together and fought back more tears. Maker, how did she still have any left to shed?

"Even... even though I'm probably a mage?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "We'll... we'll figure it out together." He paused, his voice growing unsure. "As long as that's what _you_ want."

"Yes," she assured him. "I want to be with you, Rylen. As you say, we can figure things out together."

"Good," he said in a newly strong and decisive voice. "Rather inconvenient if I'd done all that blubbering for nothing."

She turned her face into his chest and laughed. The warmth that inhabited her chest whenever she was around him grew two-fold.

"Oh, so you only cried to butter me up, then?"

"Of course. And it worked, didn't it?"

"You're an awful liar!" she cried as she lightly slapped the flat of her palm to his hard chest.

"Ow!" he complained, rubbing at the spot she'd barely touched. "That hurt."

She leaned back to raise a skeptical brow at him. "Oh, the big, bad templar brought low by the fierce warrior cook, eh?"

He smiled down at her, and perhaps it was only the aftermath of his emotional outburst, but his eyes held a softness she'd never seen before. Her own smile faded, and she swallowed hard.

"Truer than you know, lass," he responded quietly.

She buried her head in his chest again, her heart racing. He'd always had an effect on her, even from their first meeting in Val Royeaux, but that particular look sent thoughts and feelings flying that she hadn't examined in many years. The strength of his pull on her, the way he could turn her around with a look or a few words - it frightened her to realize exactly how much of a hold he already had on her.

"I won't be able to be with you much this week," he continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. "Not until after the assault. I'll want to station a guard outside your room in the meantime."

She grimaced, momentarily distracted from her previous thoughts. "I don't like it, but I also don't trust myself anymore. I don't see how it can be avoided, at least until we can figure out what's happening."

"Agreed. Do you have a preference?"

She shrugged. "The young man you stationed there before seemed alright. I fed him breakfast, and he left me to my work."

Rylen snorted in amusement. "You fed him breakfast?"

"Well, I didn't know what else to do with him!" she exclaimed in mock defensiveness. "It's not as if you'd told me about him beforehand."

"Yes... that was perhaps badly done," he admitted a little sheepishly.

She hummed out an agreement mixed with a little bit of "ya think?" He only laughed in return, and she smothered her smile in his chest. After a short pause during which her brain whirred in several directions at once, she let loose one of the questions she'd held back earlier.

"Your time with the templars... it wasn't all bad, was it?"

"Nay. Not all bad. Most of it was fine... good even. I had a purpose. A place. I just wish..."

He trailed off, but he didn't need to finish the phrase for her to understand his meaning. Another long silence filled the space between them, but this time, it felt like a breath of fresh air, a quiet space for something new to grow. She snaked her arms around his middle and pressed her naked body into his, savoring the quiet time to just _be_.

"I've thought of trying to quit," he whispered into the silence.

She took her time responding, not knowing exactly what would help him most. Finally, she allowed herself one selfish question.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Yes," he replied. "Very."

She bit at her lower lip. "I will support whatever you decide, Rylen. I hope you know that. And I've nursed a friend through a withdrawal before. I could... assist you."

"It's not... not the same, I don't think," he said slowly. "The Commander... my friend, Cullen... he quit before the Inquisition really began, and even now he suffers from occasional withdrawal symptoms."

Trice blinked and then sat up to look at him. "But that's been-"

"More than a year now, yes."

Trice blinked again before shaking her head slightly. "But he's maintained his position of power. Clearly it can be done."

Rylen shook his head and then laughed a little. "You don't know Cullen. He's possibly the most stubborn, most dedicated ass I know. Once he sets his mind to something - for good or for ill - there's no stopping him." Rylen's expression grew thoughtful. "Although, I think he might be changing a little. Growing. The lyrium... I told you it dulls some senses. I think it also... stunts us... emotionally, I mean." He shrugged. "It's hard to explain, but without lyrium, Cullen is slowly growing into a more thoughtful man - one I admire even more than before, actually - and I want..."

He let his words trail off once again as he shifted under her. A fleeting grimace of pain crossed his face, and she immediately lifted herself off him and straddled his outstretched legs, her hands coming to rest on his chest. He pushed both hands down into the stone floor to pull himself up straight and then reached forward to rest his hands on her hips.

"Have you thought of when you would begin?"

Rylen, whose eyes had wandered southward, jerked his head up in apparent surprise. "I... it's just been a thought, an idea I've toyed with." His voice turned quiet, edged with doubt. "I'm not sure I've got the balls to go through with it, to be honest."

She huffed out a little laugh of disbelief. "You? You're about the ballsiest person I know... outside of Katlin, of course."

He grinned as he briefly reached up to push back one of the tendrils that had long ago escaped from her tattered braid. "I'd pretend to be offended, but we both know it's true. That woman has more stones than all the rest of us combined."

They laughed together, and then Rylen's grin faded into a soft smile, his pale eyes shining warmly in the lamplight as they slowly roved over her face. Her nipples tightened at the blatant appreciation in his gaze, and the skin under his warm hands, already tingling from the contact, began to hum. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny and more aware of her position and her nakedness with every passing moment, she started to move away, but the hands at her waist suddenly grasped her firmly.

"Wait," he pleaded. "Don't... don't go just yet."

He reached over and picked up the vial he'd stashed against the leg of the bed. Sparing her a pained look, he then threw back the contents in one go.

He sat there for a long moment, his eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed the final vestiges still coating his mouth, and she watched in morbid fascination as his body transformed before her eyes. The vial, held between his thumb and forefinger and trembling in the space between them, gradually stilled. The lines of pain and exhaustion creasing his face smoothed out. His breathing slowed from the slightly elevated rate to long, slow draws of relaxation. The grip of the hand still resting on her hip lost the edge of desperation.

But it was his eyes, when they finally popped open, that truly gave her pause. No longer full of pain, his calculating gaze raked over her, firmly reminding her that she was very naked and very much straddling his lap. The softness, the openness of only moments before had disappeared into the depths. She would never wish him pain, but that sharpness that bordered on coldness in his eyes sent a chill down her spine.

His hands were anything but cold, however, as they confidently swept up her body to cup her breasts. Her blood heated with his touch, and she leaned into him, kissing him softly. She pulled away before he could take control of the kiss and was relieved to find a glimmer of that previous softness hidden in his half-lidded eyes and knowing smile.

"We may not have much time together in the next few days," he murmured as one hand massaged her breast while the other slid around to cup her ass. "I'd hoped for one more taste of you before the keep descends into chaos. If you don't object, that is?"

"No objections here, Captain," she said in her sultriest tone.

He hummed out a laugh and then hummed his pleasure as she reached down to stroke him into hardness through his pants. He guided her hips into a similar motion, and she gladly adopted the movements as the teasing slide of the linen over her folds made her moan with want.

Their bodies, already attuned to one another, moved in synchronous waves along with lips and arms and hips, ebbing and flowing, one into the other. But more than her body, she found her heart moving in time with his as whispered affection spilled from his lips - _darling, beauty, perfection,_ mine.

They finally joined with one another in a slow rocking of their bodies, each learning a bit more of the other through teasing and testing, pushing and pulling. Panting, desperate breaths mingled between them, their lips brushing and sucking at intervals between undulations, and Rylen pulled back slightly, claiming and holding her gaze as he stroked her to her breaking point.

Finally, in a consummation of their tentative commitment to one another, the waves of pleasure crashed into her, and she threw her head back with a strangled moan. In the corner of her consciousness, she could hear the ragged edge of his breathing, feel the wild thrust of his hips as he worked her through her pleasure. She clenched around him over and over, the aftershocks rocketing through her, and finally he followed her over with a ragged cry of her name.

His body shuddered under her, and he grabbed onto her tightly, crushing her against his chest. She let out a huff of surprise but then wrapped her arms around him in return as their breathing returned to normal.

"Maker, it's better every time," he mumbled in a wondrous tone. "How is it better?"

"Is it really a good idea to question such a thing?" she quipped even as her mind reeled from the intensity of their joining.

He chuckled and ghosted a tender kiss across the skin behind her ear. "I suppose not. But I'll be hard pressed to think of anything but you for the rest of the day."

"And I you," she admitted in return.

Despite her vague answer, however, realization dawned slowly as she held fast to him, gradually catching her breath. She pushed it away at first, fighting simultaneous urges to laugh and cry and throw a tantrum worthy of her five-year-old daughter.

She knew why the sex kept getting better... at least for her.

Because the more she learned about him, the more connected she felt to him. Because even knowing that she might reject him, he'd bravely revealed all his flaws to her. Because he knew her deepest secrets in return and wanted her still.

Because, _dammit_ , she didn't just _care_ about him. Andraste preserve her, she was falling in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few notes on stuff happening in this chapter:
> 
> -Trice's story is heavily reliant on my headcanon that not only is magic hereditary, but specific _kinds_ of magic can be passed down to family members. Trice's maternal grandmother was a Rivaini seer, which is part of the reason Trice's paternal grandmother hated Trice's mother so much. I also have a hard time believing that these "sort of" mages don't exist. 
> 
> -Rylen's addiction/withdrawal issues are based on head canons I've developed from Cullen's story. Cullen often states in round-about ways that the lyrium dulled his emotions and senses. I think it's a large reason for the continued severity of his PTSD after ten years - he's never been able to fully deal with his trauma due to the dulling of his ability to process emotions and feelings. 
> 
> I will allow that I think this is highly dependent on an individual's original personality - canon reveals a lot of sympathetic and caring templars (Ser Thrask, for example). A naturally highly sympathetic/empathetic person might not be affected as greatly. But people like Cullen and Rylen, who work off of cold logic, will be much more damaged by this effect, especially as their keen powers for problem-solving are useful to the Order and encouraged over developing other areas, such as feeling and emotion.
> 
> As the lyrium wears off earlier and earlier, the emotions Rylen has stuffed down and ignored are beginning to surface. Hence, crying. When/if he decides to quit lyrium, I think we'll see him come to more a middle ground between these two versions of himself as he comes to terms with all his baggage.
> 
> -These are my head canons, but I'm always interested in hearing other takes on things!


	21. Wind 'em up and knock 'em down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fade is so much fun! (said nobody but egghead ever)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell, the end of Chapter 21 occurs during Chapters 56-58 of Part 1.

Wind buffeted the keep in erratic bursts, pushing up from the earth to cast sand against the walls in wave after wave of elemental assault. The violent air reflected the general sense of upheaval as soldiers ran back and forth along the battlements, their shouts adding to the dull roar of conversation, stomping feet and hooves and clanking armor of thousands of people preparing for battle. Some carried final orders, others toted supplies, and quite a few seemed to be searching for people - possibly one another.

Trice knew all the goings on behind her, but she stood at the parapet wall, ceaseless and unmoving like the ageless stone under her feet, with her eyes fixed on the sea of glinting steel and multi colored banners snapping in the wind. Mallory had forbidden her and the children to leave the guarded, upper portion of the keep while the chevaliers roamed the lower levels, and the order presented no hardship. She had no desire to be crushed in the throng below.

Her only regret was that she'd missed her chance to see Rylen off. He was out there somewhere among the throng, but she had no idea where.

As they'd feared, the busyness of the past week had kept them apart much of the time. On top of that, the worry, lack of sleep and strain of pushing a kitchen staff to produce four times their normal capacity had turned her into a veritable monster. Only her brief moments with Rylen had brought her any peace - stolen kisses and hurried embraces between shifts and duties - but it hadn't been enough.

And yet if she lost him tonight, these fleeting days of happiness would have to last a lifetime. The thought set her insides to riot.

"Mama, do you think it will be very bad?"

Jacques stood at her side, not quite as unmoving, but she could sense the matching turmoil brewing in his smaller body. His eyes flicked from armor to glinting weapons to the far-off sight of the Inquisition's commander on horseback riding up and down the front line. The hateful memory of a promise not to lie to her son forced the reply from her chapped lips.

"Yes. This..." She took a deep breath, her ribs aching with the pressure of emotions caged within, and continued. "This may be the last time we see some of our friends."

He took a shaky breath, and she didn't need to look to know pools of saltwater hovered precariously over his red-rimmed lids. They burned her as if they were her own hot tears, even as her eyes remained barren as the desert spread out below them.

"I don't like it," he said in a sullen tone.

"Nor do I."

Suddenly, a mighty roar rose up from the front of the mass. Those below turned in one motion to face front, and an eerie silence settled over the desert. It pricked at her skin and pressed inward even as all the emotions she held in check behind expanding ribs demanded release. During the next gust, a faint voice touched her ears.

"... reclaim the Grey Wardens from the ... march for the men, women and children... ... stand with our Inquisitor ... evil of the world..."

When it became apparent the Commander had finished speaking, another, louder roar swelled into existence. Front to back, the wave of sound rolled through the mass and through her body, the hairs on her arms standing on end as goosebumps spread across her flesh. Then, in the second silence that followed, the winds assaulted her with another faint shout.

"Inquisition! We march!"

A cracking in her chest finally ended her unmoving vigil. One hand flew up to press in and down on the imminent flood. The other fumbled for the wall to support her shaking body.

Why? Why couldn't she be one of those stoic women who never showed what they felt, never let on they felt anything at all? Who felt their entire being crack in two with the forward motion of an army and still showed no emotion, no fear?

"They'll come back. I know it."

Jacques wobbly words cut through her misery, and she turned to face her boy. Tears she wished she could shed flowed down his cheeks as he squinted at the slowly diminishing mass. She moved toward him, but he moved over a step and shook his head.

She stared at him, her eyes still as dry as the desert winds in spite of the rend in her chest. Then, turning her head toward the horizon, toward the inexorable retreat of every bit of hope and security she'd earned in the past few months, she gave a quick nod.

"Yes."

"He's coming back," Jacques whispered, and she didn't need to ask who.

"Yes."

She had to believe it. Like her son, she had no choice.

_Maker, please._

 

**

 

"Alright now," came Katlin's voice. "Again. You can do it!"

Trice walked into the kitchen to find Clara sitting on one of the kitchen tables, her brown eyes glittering with challenge and excitement. Katlin stood in front of the girl, hands extended. Trice paused to watch as they began clapping their hands together in a strange sequence of moves.

"Aaaaand... Down by the riverside, Hallie and me, dippin' our toes in, one, two, three. Along comes the alligator, slip, slap, slomp, 'My what pretty-' Ohhhhhh!"

Clara giggled wildly and threw her hands up in the air. "I messed up again!"

Katlin laughed, too, and Trice couldn't help the small smile that broke through her otherwise sour expression. If everything fell apart, at least she'd still have her children.

Trice grimaced at the morbid thought and focused on the sound of her daughter's laughter. The two had started over and gotten as far as the alligator revealing a desire to chomp on little girl toes before Clara fell backward on the table in a fit of giggles.

"Alligators wanna chomp my toes! Chomp, chomp, chomp!"

Katlin shook her head, laughing along with the girl, before finally catching sight of Trice. "Oh, here you are! Did the soldiers get away alright? My Essi was beside herself when the Commander arrived and before they'd finished preparations."

Trice shrugged. "Everything seemed to go smoothly. Thanks for staying with Clara."

"No trouble at all. We had a grand time, didn't we, Clara-bug?"

Clara nodded her head. "Alligators!"

The girl burst into another fit of giggles. Trice and Katlin shared a look of exasperated amusement before Trice scooped the girl off the table and set her down on her wobbly legs. As soon as Clara hit the floor, however, she straightened, her giggles dying off abruptly as she looked up at Trice with pleading eyes.

"I wanna play with Puppers. Pleeeeeeeeease?"

Trice sighed. A merchant had arrived earlier in the week, and both Jacques and Clara had immediately fallen in love with the giant hound he'd brought along. Luckily, the merchant, a kindly older man named Daniel, had declared he didn't mind a bit if the children hung about and distracted Puppers with their antics.

"See if Jacques will go with you. If not, come right back here."

"Ok!"

Clara disappeared through the kitchen doorway, and Trice stared after her, eyes unfocused and mind drifting along the gusting wind to catch up with marching soldiers. The kitchen seethed with the memories of every face she'd come to know, every soldier she'd joked or commiserated with in the long weeks leading up to this battle. Normally a place of comfort and home, the room now held too many reminders of her interactions with the inhabitants of Griffon Wing Keep.

The fissure in her chest grew wider. Once again, her hand rose up to rub at the pain there. A hand at her elbow, however, startled her from the recollections, and she turned to find Katlin raising an inquisitive brow.

"I know," Trice said before Katlin could comment. "I'm pathetic."

"You and me both," Katlin replied with an atypical sigh. "I couldn't even get up the gumption to watch Essi leave." The silence stretched between them for a moment before Katlin shook herself and gave Trice a wry smile. "By the by I've already told the corporal left in charge that the kitchen is closed for business today. The place is a bleedin' ghost town after all that hubbub, and we should enjoy the quiet while we've got it."

Trice didn't necessarily agree, but she kept her mouth shut. She didn't think she had enough left in her to boil an egg, let alone cook dinner for what was left of the keep.

"I feel wrung out, Kat. Like an rotten rag twisted 'round and 'round until the threads begin to snap, one by one."

Katlin's face soured. "Well, aren't we dramatic this afternoon?"

"I just mean-"

"I know what you mean," Katlin snapped. She immediately grimaced and shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's just... I don't wanna think about it, ya know? But it's stickin' to my mind close as a babe to the breast."

Trice opened her mouth to reply, but the words crammed up in her throat at the sight of the crystalline pools forming in Katlin's eyes just before the other woman turned away. After a moment of shocked paralysis, Trice surged forward and wrapped her arms around Katlin's shoulders from behind.

"Oh, Kat!"

"Damn it all to the Void," Katlin muttered. "I hate this. I hate it!"

"Me, too, darling. Me, too."

"It's just... It didn't seem real until now. The war. I thought I had it all under control. Thought I knew what I was about, but..." Katlin sniffed a little, her voice wobbly with emotion. "But she's gone, and I didn't tell her... didn't tell her I think I... I l-love h-her!"

Katlin stuttered through her final words as she broke into a sob. Trice tightened her embrace, trying to stay present despite her racing thoughts. She couldn't help drawing the parallel between their situations, though their reactions were completely different. She and Rylen had barely had time to speak since their early morning conversation nearly a week ago, but even if they had, she wasn't willing to confess anything more. Her ingrained caution far outweighed her inner lovesick fool straining to shout her feelings from the mountaintops.

"I'm sure she knows," Trice soothed as Katlin hiccuped through another sob. "No one you love could ever be in doubt of it for long. You make sure of that. Even if you didn't say the words out loud... I'm sure she knows."

"M-maybe, but I- I still wish I'd said it. Just in case... in case..."

Katlin broke down completely. And though Trice's chest ached and her eyes turned scratchy as she held her sobbing friend, her eyes remained barren of tears. The ache, however, spread into a gulf pain, and Trice found herself whispering to Katlin the sentiment that Jacques had spoken to her only a couple of hours before.

"She'll be back, Kat. She'll be back and you can tell her then."

 

**

 

It felt different tonight.

The now familiar shapes and sounds of the Fade surrounded her as she stumbled through the rocky terrain. She'd almost become used to it - the eerie green glow, the lack of regard for the proper order of things, even the occasional indistinct shimmer that heralded the passing of a spirit or demon, though she'd never been able to interact with them. She could barely see them, and they certainly never acknowledged her existence.

Everything _seemed_ the same, but it all _felt_ terribly different.

For one, the voice that had goaded her and shown her all those terrible visions was conspicuously absent. She wandered the changing landscape in constant fear of insidious words inside her head, but hour after hour she trudged on with no sign of it.

She'd started walking because it seemed better than just sitting around waiting for the voice to come for her. Now, she was beginning to fear she'd become stuck in the Fade. Panic, not for herself but for her children, simmered inside her. Although she had no goal in mind, she moved faster even as her feet dragged and her body protested the rigors of the uneven landscape.

That was another thing. Everything felt heavier, more _real_ somehow. Even the nights she'd been fooled into thinking her surroundings were real hadn't felt like this. Like real life.

Sweat beaded at her forehead, and she wiped it away with the back of her sleeve as she crested a steep hill. The black city loomed before her, close but always too far to reach. To her right, she could see what looked like a lake or sea below. She blew out a long breath and tried again to quell the panic bubbling just below the surface. Perhaps it was just another terrible joke the voice - no doubt a demon of some sort - had decided to play to make her experience the passage of time as if she were awake. She just had to wait out the night, and she'd wake up in her bed same as always.

The terrain stretched on before her with more rocks and cliffs and narrow passages that seemed to direct her motion. She sighed again and started down the hill. At the bottom, she paused and cursed under her breath.

She hadn't seen it from her position above, but a steep drop now cut off her path. The height wasn't terrible - she thought she might be able to lower herself off the ledge and not hurt herself too badly. She feared, however, that if she did make it down, she'd find herself trapped in a hole.

She looked to her left and right, searching for a way around, but the cliff seemed to extend infinitely in both directions. Not only that, but the height seemed to increase the longer she stood there. Was it changing right in front of her? If so, could she somehow change it back?

All deliberation ceased as a bright green light exploded above her, throwing her backwards to the rocky ground. She cried out in pain, and then flung her arms up to shield her face from the sudden debris raining down on her.

Violent crackling filled the air, and a chill raced down her spine as the popping sounds gave way to shouting. Afraid of what she might see, she hesitantly lowered her arm.

A large piece of stone hung in the air directly in front of her, as if arrested mid fall. The voices came from behind the stone, so she stood on rubbery legs to peer around the miraculously floating rock.

She emerged to find more stone obstructing her view. The jagged pieces, hovering at different heights across the bottom of the depression, looked like sections from a battlement or perhaps a bridge of some sort. As she moved to the edge of the cliff, the voices below became clearer, and Trice froze in wonder and terror as a faint but familiar tone reached her ears.

"In our world, the rift the demons came through was nearby. In the main hall. Can we escape the same way?"

_Jean-Marc!_

Trice ran along the edge of the cliff, searching for a break in the hanging debris. Her eyes scanned the ground for the figures she hoped and feared to see. She finally skidded to a halt and her heart dropped into her stomach at the familiar sight of blue and grey.

She couldn't ignore who they were - what this was - any longer.

"Warden Stroud!"

She screamed his name as loud as she could, desperation bouncing off rock and stone. This was it. Her dream. She'd lived these moments over and over in the nights leading up to Jean-Marc's departure. She screamed his name again, her ears ringing with the sound of echoing panic.

But not one of the figures below moved. They didn't even stop their conversation.

Looking back to the rock that had nearly taken her life, she noted the way it leaned slightly and how the bottom end nearly touched the ground below. She noted the craggy edges and how close the edge came to the side of the cliff. If she could just get a hold of it...

This was all wrong, though. In her previous dreams, everything had been hazy and nebulous. She couldn't recall terrain getting in her way except in the vaguest ways. In many of them, she wasn't even experiencing the dream as herself. The realness of this dream struck her again, and a chilling suspicion took root in the back of her mind. But how could it be? How could she be seeing it happen when they were miles away?

The group below began moving away from her, and Trice ran out of time to debate the finer points of impossibilities. She ran back to the rock. Pebbles skittered over the edge as she paused to gauge the jump. One false step, and she would plummet to the rocky ground below. Perhaps not a killing fall, and perhaps not an injury that would follow her into the real world, but even a slight injury would make it impossible for her to catch up with the group. And she needed to stay with Jean-Marc.

She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them, her mouth set in a determined line. She backed up, gritted her teeth, and ran toward the edge of the cliff. At the last possible moment, she pushed off the crumbling edge with her toes and launched herself at the rock.

For some reason, it hadn't occurred to her that the rock might move with the impact of her body, but move it did. She scrambled for purchase on the shifting stone, her fingers raking against the rough edges, her nails breaking and bleeding with the effort. The stone tipped downward, and a groan started quietly in the back of her throat and increased in volume as the stone increased in speed.

The groan turned into a full-on scream as the top finally crashed into the ground and sent her flying. She skidded across the bumpy ground, the sound of ripping fabric filling her ears, and ended up sprawled out in a pool of lukewarm, fetid water.

She lay there for only a moment before water began seeping into her abrasions, stinging her wounds and making her retch with both the pain and the smell. Unable to entertain the thought of standing just yet, she rolled out of the pool and onto the rocky ground until she lay on her back with her arms and legs spread wide. Rocks poked into her scuffed back as she watched the sky above swirl with hazy greens and murky grays, the light from what seemed to be a dying sun doing little to pierce the depths.

"Well, you won't help anyone lying here like a fool, Patrice," she said into the stillness. "Get up, now. Get. Up!"

On the final word, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her body ached to the bones, and every movement intensified the pain. She gritted her teeth and hissed through the process of standing. She had no time to waste on her own grievances that likely weren't even real.

The world spun as she finally righted herself, and she raised a hand to wipe the water from her face. Her hand came away bloody.

"Wonderful," she muttered to herself. "Just wonderful. I'll bleed to death before I find Jean-Marc."

She stumbled forward, the ground spinning slightly with each step. What had been unknown and foreign from the cliff above became painfully familiar as she traced the path she'd walked dozens of times before. Jean-Marc and the Inquisitor's group had gone ahead, but they did not know the route. Not like she did. She found the stairs leading up, anxiety and dread mixing with a drop of hope. The chances of her changing the Warden's fate were small, but she had to try.

Yet as she pushed forward, her limbs protesting every step, she seemed always a moment too late. They would disappear around the corner or down a staircase or through an archway, and she would struggle to catch up. Always a step behind.

The panic built until she finally rounded a corner to find them all standing together while they argued about something. Relieved, she broke into a run, stopping only when she'd reached Jean-Marc's side.

"How dare you judge us!" the Warden spat out. "You tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion!"

"To protect innocent mages!" retorted the blonde woman from Trice's dreams, the woman she now knew was the Champion of Kirkwall. "Not madmen drunk on blood magic!"

Trice listened with increasing astonishment as they began to argue about whether Wardens should even exist. The Inquisitor finally stepped in and told them all to shut up, which also served to rouse Trice from her bewildered state.

"Jean-Marc!" she said breathlessly as to turned to him. "Can you hear me? You must listen-"

She reached up to grab a hold and shake him but cut herself off as her hand swiped right through him. She stared at her own limb, bemused, even as the panic she'd been holding back bubbled to the surface. Suddenly, Jean-Marc stepped away from her.

"Inquisitor!"

They all turned, and tension filled the air. All six fighters raised their weapons, while a vague hum, something that could have been a distant voice, spoke into the void. It didn't sound like the voice from before - too weak and indistinct - but Trice tensed nonetheless and looked around her. All she needed now would be for that taunting voice to play on her rising panic.

Trice's eyes swung around until she caught a glimpse of a faint spirit hanging in the air above her. A moment later, it vanished into nothingness, leaving her to wonder if it hadn't been a figment of her imagination.

She didn't have time to wonder about it, however. Jean-Marc and the Champion moved forward as one front and declared their support for the Inquisitor. Then, they moved forward in an attack formation, while Trice stood by in utter confusion.

What were they doing?

There was nothing there.

But the instant the Inquisitor let loose her magic, it struck something. So did the swords of Jean-Marc, the Champion and the other woman warrior. She watched in growing horror as the bolts from Mr. Tethras' crossbow seemed to float around of their own accord.

When her back hit stone, Trice realized she'd been slowing backing away from the action. Shaken, she squinted, desperate to understand what her eyes couldn't see. Vague shimmers of amorphous blobs began to take shape the longer she watched. Eyes wide and hand to her chest, Trice became aware of an evil presence crowding into her space. The shimmers took on a more solid appearance.

And then, it came.

"Ah. My little seer. You've answered my summons after all. I thought perhaps you might miss the moment all your nightmares come true."

Trice shuddered, dread clinging to her ragged edges and seeping into the cracks of her panicked mind. She barely noticed the scrape of rocks across her back as she sank to the ground, hands flying up to cover her ears.

"No! I'm not here. This isn't real!"

"Oh, but it is. Very real. Do you not yet understand how this works, little seer? Your magic calls, and I answer, giving it a conduit to show me all the dreadful things that will happen to those you care about. Simply de _li_ cious."

Trice whimpered and pressed harder on her ears. Her heart raced and her body trembled with the force of her fear, a seemingly living thing expanding to take up every thought, every breath. No one could see her, feel her or hear her. She couldn't help. She couldn't save them. She could only watch them die.

"Oh, you are a tasty morsel, aren't you? Enjoy the show, my dear."

With that, the presence withdrew, no doubt to focus on the group still fighting what looked like nothing to her. Her heartbeat slowed to a manageable level, and she dropped her hands to the ground. Despair crept in, however, to join her fear. She let her head fall back against the rock as her eyes tracked Jean-Marc's movements.

She had no recourse. He could not see her or feel her or hear her. No one could.

Later, she would wonder if another spirit hadn't finally noticed her and whispered in her ear, but as she sat unmoving, listless in her despair, a thought struck her.

It wasn't true. One thing in this cursed place could both see and hear her. Now, she only needed to find out if it could feel her, too.

 

**

 

She used her familiarity with the terrain to move ahead, and the group was long behind her when she finally snuck into the final expanse of rock and stone and got her first glimpse of the body that came with the voice. A mountainous spider, of course. Trice shuddered from her hiding spot, the evil presence encroaching on her. She steeled herself, pushing back on her fear, and the presence diminished.

As she'd rushed ahead of the group, several things had become clear to her, the most important being that it was her fear alone that drew the demon's attention. If she could keep her fear at bay, she could remain undetected.

And if her plan was going to work, she needed secrecy.

Creeping along the dark edges of rock, she distracted herself from her fear with every pleasant thought she could recall. Jacques' triumphant grin when he'd mastered something difficult. Clara's mischievous glances as she plotted something or other.

Trice smiled to herself as she recalled them playing with Puppers in the courtyard a couple of days ago. Their happiness had made her happy, despite the shadow of war looming over them all, and the arms that had encircled her from behind had made her happier still. Tenderness surged through Trice as the memory played out in her head.

_"Mind if I steal a kiss from the loveliest lass in Thedas while the children are distracted?" Rylen's rough voice murmured in her ear._

_Instead of answering, she turned to grace him with a smile and led him to a nearby alcove. Before they'd even reached the semi-secluded spot, his kisses, hot and needy, rained down upon her, and she allowed herself to get swept away by the force of their mutual want. He pushed her roughly against the stone, his hands wandering to her hips, her ass and then her breasts, where he teased her nipples with sure fingers until she whimpered into his mouth._

_"Rylen, please."_

_It had been days since they last joined, and he seemed as desperate for it as she. He hiked up her skirt, the same sure fingers sliding between her thighs to tease the folds already wet with want of him. She gasped into his mouth at the waves of pleasure that coursed through her at his touch. She reached down to palm his impressively hard length, stroking him through the thick layer of leather. His breath caught in his throat, and he broke his lips from hers._

_"I need ye, love. Let me...?"_

_In answer to his unspoken question, she lifted her leg to hook around his hips, opening wider for him. At the same time, she fumbled with his belt and then the buttons of his trousers. He sprang free into her waiting hand, and she stroked the hot flesh with relish. He groaned softly into her hair before claiming her lips again. She guided him to her, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth as he filled her with a thrust of his hips._

_They both moaned, but Rylen didn't pause to savor. There was no time. He set a frantic pace, his fingers circling around their joining to give her the release she craved. Pleasure built quickly, and she bit her lip to stifle a cry of joy as it exploded into a shattering climax. Rylen groaned into her mouth as she convulsed around him and thrust into her more vigorously. His ragged breaths caught... once.... twice... until he thrust into her with a gasping, shuddering exhale. He buried his face in her neck, and they clung to one another in both satisfaction and desperation._

_"Well good afternoon to you, too," she panted breathlessly into his ear, her tone edged with a levity she didn't quite feel._

_He hummed a laugh into her neck. "It will be now."_

_Her fingers dug into his back, holding him against her. Not that he'd attempted to let go. Finally, however, he sighed across her skin and lifted his head. His ice-blue eyes scanned her face before catching her gaze._

_"I have to get back to it. The masses will become restless if I disappear for too long."_

_She smiled. "I know what you mean. I just wanted to give the children a bit of a break, but I need to get back to the kitchen."_

_"I'm glad I could give_ you _a bit of a break, too, then." His eyes roved her face again, no doubt taking in her sagging eyelids and the deep shadows under her eyes. "Still having trouble sleeping?"_

_She ducked her head, pressed her temple to his cheek and nodded. He sighed softly in her ear._

_"After the battle, we'll figure this out," he promised._

_She nodded again, but they both knew that might not happen. That there might not be an "after." She gripped his shoulders more tightly and clung to him, expecting him to gently extricate himself from her grasp._

_He didn't. He pulled her closer, tightening his arms around her and clinging right back._

Trice came back to her surroundings as the sound of the demon's voice rang out across the stone yet again. The demon had been taunting it's prey, and now it turned it's rancor against the Inquisitor herself.

"Dearest Inquisitor, you think all those people will still revere you - love you - once they know? You think _he'll_ still love you? You are nothing but an upstart. You are, in fact, nothing at all. Nothing but an accident. He will throw you away, reject you. Just like Hanir. Just like your clan."

Trice covered her mouth to mute her sympathy. If this night had taught her nothing else, she now understood with frightening clarity that even the most stoic warriors had insecurities. She shuddered with the memory of the demon's taunts to poor Jean-Marc but then straightened her shoulders as a spark of anger took hold.

She would not let the demon win. She'd almost made it to her goal, and she couldn't let it find her now. Her distraction had to be at the right place and the right time.

Of course, the demon chose that moment to come after her, too. It might not be in her head anymore, but the voice echoing through the rocky canyon dripped with as much condescending animosity as ever. Trice wondered with a shiver if the others could hear it, too.

"My little seer, where have you gone? I can still feel the echo of your delicious fear in the air. I will find you soon enough. There is nowhere for you to hide."

The taunt nearly worked. Trice's legs trembled under the weight of her impending fear, but she closed her eyes and forced herself to recall every happy memory she could. The presence remained - nebulous and menacing - but it did not close in on her.

She opened her eyes to take in her surroundings. She now rested in the darkened recess between two outcroppings of rock. Chancing a peek around the edge, she saw her destination just ahead. Unfortunately, the demon seemed to be more determined to find her than ever. It moved toward her hiding spot, the multifaceted eyes darting this way and that. Trice ducked back between the rocks and breathed deeply. Thankfully, she didn't think the demon could reach her in the narrow cove, so she focused on her breathing and on pushing back her fear.

A deep grunt of displeasure echoed around her, and she knew she'd evaded detection yet again. A small smile crept onto her face. In the next moment, however, her triumph turned into dread as a familiar commotion started up from the direction she'd just come.

The demon's attention turned toward the noise, as well, and Trice used the distraction to move into position. She darted out of her alcove and toward a small pile of rubble under an outcropping. Keeping one eye on the action, she began hefting stones, judging their weight. She needed one heavy enough to do damage, but not so heavy that she couldn't throw it a good distance.

What she wouldn't give for one of Jacques' slingshots right now. Maker knew she'd confiscated enough of them over the years to have a small army of slingshots at her disposal.

A bright light exploded behind her, and she felt as much as saw the demon weaken. A thrill ran through her, and she crawled under the overhang to watch for her opening, a small pile of possible ammunition gathered in front of her. The demon backed away from the action, curling in on itself and leaving the six warriors to fight some sort of smaller but still powerful demon. The spider-looking thing backed further away than even she could see, leaving the rift open. The six couldn't reach it with the other demon in the way, however.

The voice of the demon called out threats from afar in an attempt to intimidate the group, however, and Trice let out a wry chuckle. _A fearful fear demon. How novel._

Magic tore through the air and shouts of anger filled the void around her until her blood rushed through her veins with anticipation. The time was at hand. The massive rift beyond them crackled and hummed with angry energy, and Trice glanced at it with curious wonder. What would happen if she tried to cross through it now? Would she simply wake up? Or would she end up with her spirit adrift of her body?

A scream of furious agony had her head snapping around to the action once more. The smaller demon they'd been fighting fell into a heap of goo at the feet of the six clearly exhausted warriors. Trice stood, nervous energy flooding her body.

This was it. Her chance to change things.

The six, separated into two groups by the fight, ran at full bore toward the rift. The Inquisitor's companions reached the rift and dove through, while the Inquisitor, Jean-Marc and the Champion tried to catch up.

Trice made a pouch with the torn remnants of her skirt and piled rocks into it. She ran toward them just as the demon surged forward to come between the final three warriors and the rift.

Trice gasped as the Inquisitor dodged a swipe from one of the deadly claws. Every moment held so much more detail than she'd ever seen in her dreams. The three backed away from the threatening mountain of a demon and huddled together for a moment. The demon only edged forward, still wary after the previous attack.

The three seemed to be arguing. Suddenly, the Inquisitor threw her arms around Jean-Marc. He nodded, and to her horror, he turned to charge at the demon while the Inquisitor and Champion ran for the rift.

Trice stood paralyzed. Despite everything, despite knowing the outcome, she still couldn't fathom the choice the Inquisitor had made.

As the other two dove through the rift, a sudden surge of energy pushed Trice into motion. She charged forward, a scream that sounded more like a howl tearing from her throat. The demon, apparently still wary from the earlier attack, shied away from Stroud long enough for Trice to reach into her pouch and grab a rock. Using all her strength, she heaved it at the demon...

And missed completely. Fear strangled her screams, but her feet continued to move forward as her trembling hand reached into the pouch again. The demon's attention narrowed on her. She could feel the oppressive weight of it in her mind, encouraging her to give up, to give in to her fear.

"You!" it screamed in her head. "You did this! Now you will pay for your insolence, foolish mortal!"

Pulling out another rock, Trice felt her shoulders shaking with the depth of her terror. But she reeled her arm back just as she might have when tossing a ball to Jacques and let it fly.

This time, the rock hit home, right in one of the demon's eyes. It screamed in anger. Trice turned to her right and watched the rift grow smaller, Jean-Marc's route of escape disappearing before her eyes. She screamed again.

"Jean-Marc! GO!!"

But he still couldn't hear her. To his credit, he had not let up one iota since her interference. And now, even as his only escape dwindled to nothing, he swung at the demon's nearest leg, hacking away a hunk of flesh. The demon screamed again, its attention turning back to the Warden.

"And _you_! It is time. Time that the seer saw her vision come true. Time for you-"

One moment, the demon was raising a clawed leg to impale her friend. In the next, she heard a thunderous pop to her right, and before her eyes, the demon seemed to stretch and warp with the very rocks around it. The ground trembled under her feet, while the demon dug its legs into the ground. Trice ran forward, toward Jean-Marc, but the Warden had his wits about him and began running from the demon at full tilt. With a hideous scream, the demon dug deeper into the rock while its body stretched into abnormal shapes behind it.

"This is your fault, seer! This is not over! I will come for you. I will break your mind. I will-"

With a sickening snap, the demon's body was pulled away from the ground and sucked into the hazy green clouds. Trice stood staring at the point where the demon had disappeared, her mind unable to comprehend the full extent of what had happened. A far-away, tentative voice caught her ear.

"T... Trice? Is that... Are you here with me?"

Jean-Marc's voice was a shadow of its former confident glory. She turned to find him halfway across the expanse, near where the rift had been. His bloodied hand swept through the scarred air, but the rift had been permanently closed. Blood ran freely down his face, and he held his ribs as though they pained him.

She looked around, fearing the demon's return, but her desire to comfort her friend won out over her shock and fear. She turned strangely light feet toward him, but just as she reached him, another faint, shimmering presence appeared between them. She fell back at the same moment Jean-Marc raised his sword.

"Stop there! Do not come any closer. What-" he swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

Trice had to strain to hear the reply, and even then, the world around her seemed to be fading a little. She dug her ragged fingernails into her palm, which seemed to solidify the world once more, if only for a moment.

"I was drawn by her," the faint voice replied. "I will help you for her."

Warden Stroud took a step back. "For whom?"

"Your friend. The one you call Trice. She wishes to help but is not strong enough."

"I will not be led astray by another demon," he said, some of his former strength showing through again.

Trice tensed as the faint presence turned to her. "You can hear me? I have heard you. Many years ago, I brought you the vision of your friend and your love. He died unafraid."

The spirit's words shocked her so much, she could not respond. A familiar ache rose up in her chest at the thought of Jerome's death. Then, the world around her flickered to darkness briefly. Trice gasped, reaching toward the faint spirit out of instinct.

"What's happening?!"

"Fear is strong," it replied calmly, "but with his banishment, the power he used to bring you here will eventually fade. You will wake soon. I will care for your friend."

"You'll show him to the nearest rift?" she asked with wary hope. "Get him out of the Fade?"

"I can do that. If that is your wish."

"Yes! Yes. Find a rift. Send him through. He must go back to the other side of the Veil."

During the brief conversation, Jean-Marc had approached where she stood - or perhaps she was floating. He reached out a hand, but it passed right through her.

"Trice?" he whispered. "Is it truly you? Why can't I see you?"

"She is not strong with magic," the faint spirit replied for her. "Fear has power enough to direct her dreams, but even he could not capture her completely..."

The voice faded to indiscernible mumbling, and Trice surged toward the spirit. "I think I'm waking up. But you must help him." She looked to the confused and pained Warden, her heart squeezing with fear. "Tell him I told you to help him."

Then the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this took so long! But things are finally calming down in my world - new job, new apartment, and all in a new city/state. And I know this is what you really want to know: I should be back to regular updates starting now!! If you also read TROAT, I should have an update there soon.


	22. Loose ends make for slow beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've got some things to finish up in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs during the beginning of Chapter 59 of Part 1.
> 
> I tried to ensure this could be read on its own, but if you don't normally read Part 1 of this series, I recommend at least reading the first part of chapter 59 as it contains quite a bit of Rylen.

One the morning before.

One the evening before.

One the morning after, and now...

The blue-silver liquid sloshed up the sides of the glass as Rylen mixed his fourth draught in half as many days. The extra lyrium pumping through his system should have made him feel like twice the man he'd been. All he felt, however, was an overwhelming dread at the way his body so easily acclimated to double his normal ration of lyrium.

He lifted the phial and eyed the contents with equal parts longing and disgust. How would he ever manage to quit full-stop if double rations simply made him feel normal after months - no, _years_ \- of creeping withdrawal?

Granted, he'd also slept roughly four hours out of the past thirty six. He allowed himself a measure of comfort from that, no matter how false it might be.

He'd also learned of the loss of a dear friend last night. When the all demons perished as the rift snapped closed and the Warden mages' vacant eyes had turned to terrified confusion, Rylen had approached the Inquisitor in time to hear her announcement of Stroud's sacrifice.

Even knowing what he knew about Trice's dreams, he'd been unprepared for the reality. But the troops had needed him, so he'd put off mourning in favor of another numbing draught of lyrium and his work. He'd finally made it back to the Inquisition camp by mid morning only to be waylaid by a messenger.

Rylen's eyes flicked to the missive now lying on his desk. Mallory had written three lines.

_Captain Rylen,_

_If you live, this is yours to deal with. If you have been injured, the note will be delivered to the Commander. I don't pretend to know the details, but I trust you'll know the correct response... and will fill me in later._

After that vague threat from the spy, the handwriting morphed into a far more feminine script. He'd read the words penned by Trice Valera with both relief and mounting astonishment.

_Rylen, please tell me you didn't forget my words. I will never forgive you if you die and leave me alone..._

_I don't know what transpired after the Inquisitor's walk in the Fade, but Warden Stroud is ALIVE. He is trapped in the Fade. We must help him, Rylen. Are there any mages among the Inquisition's ranks who could assist with matters related to the Fade? I am not strong enough to... but explanations can wait until you return. Suffice to say my problems with nightmares are over, at least for now, but Stroud is still in danger._

_Yours always, Trice_

The words had lit a fire in Rylen. He'd confided in Seeker Cassandra and received assurances that one of the Inquisitor's companions, the elf called Solas, would be contacting him. However, the Commander had ushered him off to his sleep shift before he could speak with the mage.

Stroud had already been in the Fade for half a day, and it felt like time was running out. Rylen had no idea how long someone could survive in the Fade on their own. Who in the Void would have thought that would even be a question? The Fade wasn't something you _fell into_.

Unless you're an Inquisitor, a Champion and a stubborn, honorable Warden.

Now, here he stood, dawdling in his tent when he should be working. Steeling himself against the dread, he threw back the ration. It always took a few moments for the lyrium to hit his system, but he didn't have time to wait around. He cinched his belt a notch tighter than normal and stepped out of his tent.

"Ah, Captain. I was told you wished to speak with me."

Rylen jerked in surprise, his eyes slowly adjusting to the bright sunlight as he scanned for the owner of the voice. After a few moments, he spied Solas standing a few feet away in the shade of a rock. Approaching, he held out a hand to the elf.

"Solas, thank you for coming to me."

Solas looked slightly surprised by the offer of a handshake, but he took Rylen's hand in a firm grip. "Of course. From the little Cassandra could tell me, I gather you have questions regarding the Fade?"

"It's a wee bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid. But you were there with the Inquisitor, so at least I needn't explain that part."

A perplexed expression passed over the elf's face. "Explain what, exactly?"

Rylen looked around them and then motioned Solas to follow. He walked toward a secluded area away from the majority of the encampment.

"It's not something I wish to bandy about to the general populace," Rylen explained quietly as they walked, "not least because the average person would consider it the ravings of a madman."

When they reached the semi-private spot, Solas turned to Rylen, an expectant look on his face. Rylen dove in without preamble.

"You walked in the Fade, so you know what happened there. What you probably don't know is that someone foresaw your Fade walk weeks before it happened. She also saw that Stroud would die."

Solas' eyes widened slightly. "The 'little seer,' then?"

It was Rylen's turn to be surprised. "Yes, how did you...?"

"The Nightmare demon spoke to someone not of our group and called them his 'little seer.' This is your friend, I presume?"

"Aye," Rylen breathed, not sure whether to be thankful or terrified for the corroboration. "Aye. She isn't strong enough to help on her own, so she wrote to beg I find someone who could help in her stead."

Solas looked down, his long fingers stroking at his chin. "I... I have been trying to find him."

"Have you? And?"

"I have been unsuccessful so far. You say your seer- pardon, her name is?"

Rylen only hesitated a moment. "Patrice... Trice."

"You say Trice could see us while we were in the Fade?"

"I, uh... I'm not sure of the particulars."

Solas shook his head and began pacing. "I can do nothing here. I must meet this Trice. I think the only possible method of finding Stroud lies in meeting her in the Fade. She can lead me to Stroud."

"But..." Solas looked up at Rylen expectantly, and Rylen was forced to continue. "She said she wasn't strong enough to help him. That might mean she can no longer find him."

"That is possible, yes. But I will not know unless I speak with her."

"Then you'll need to get to Griffon Wing Keep. I can send you with a few agents to our keep's spymaster, Mallory. He'll take you to Trice. When can you leave?"

"I would prefer to depart as soon as possible."

Rylen nodded and waved him to follow along toward the main Inquisition camp. As they approached, he veered to the right to a smaller tent. The flaps were open, revealing a few sleeping agents and, to his surprise, a familiar form bent over a table, quill in hand.

"Gwin?"

She looked up, a wide grin on her face. "I was wondering when you'd finally show your face."

"How long have you been here?"

"I arrived at the keep the evening after you all left. Managed to get in on the last few hours of the battle, and I've been helping clear out the fortress since then. Glad to see you made it through unscathed."

"Relatively, yes. You, too. How did-"

Solas' voice cut through his thought. "Pardon me for interrupting, but I believe time is of the essence?"

"Yes. Right. Gwin, are you all planning to send agents back to the keep any time soon? Solas here needs to get there as quickly as possible. I'd offer soldiers as an escort, but agents would make better time."

"I can, certainly. I've got a couple ready for just such occasions. Because I'm prepared."

She gave him a wink, and Rylen smirked at her in return. "Incorrigible. Ready your men. Solas will be setting off at once."

"Who said they were men?"

Rylen very nearly rolled his eyes but took the correction like a good sport. "Ready your _agents_ , Gwin."

She clicked her heels together and gave an exaggerated salute. This time, he did roll his eyes, injecting a teasing tone to his response.

"That's enough from you, lass."

"That's not what you usually say," she shot back, a wide grin splitting her lips.

It was a joke. An innuendo spoken in fun just like dozens of others they'd shared in the past year. It meant nothing. Yet the camaraderie he'd felt a moment before drained away, leaving him floundering at the edge of an unfamiliar chasm of awkwardness.

"Right. Good then. I, uh..." He stumbled over his words, then jabbed a finger toward the main tent. "I'll be... there... should ye need... errr... yes."

He only glanced in Gwin's direction long enough to register her nonplussed expression before turning to leave. _Maker._ He'd botched that from top to bottom.

Apparently oblivious to - or simply unconcerned with - Rylen's odd behavior, Solas stayed behind to further discuss arrangements with Gwin. Rylen picked up his pace and left them to it. Solas would take it from here. If the elf had already been searching for Stroud, it meant he had some sort of personal stake in locating the Warden. Rylen didn't know much about the elf, but that alone spoke well of him.

Inside the main tent, he greeted Cullen with a curt nod. Rylen sorely regretted that his duties prevented him from attempting to help Stroud himself, but beyond the fact that Stroud's situation was beyond his skills and knowledge, he simply couldn't shirk his duties at a time like this. The Inquisition needed him. _Cullen_ needed him.

He'd have time to worry about Stroud later. He hoped.

 

**

 

Throughout the evening, Rylen and Cullen alternated duties. While one directed soldiers from the main tent, the other did walkthroughs of the fortress and surrounds. The lieutenants mostly had the work in hand - arranging the collection and processing of the dead before burning them on mass pyres in a valley a mile or so away.

It was the soldiers who needed a continual presence of authority to remind them of their duty.

No one had struck out against the Wardens, yet. The Inquisitor had effectively forbidden it by conscripting them to work for the Inquisition. But in spite of, or perhaps because of, the soldiers' collective exhaustion, tensions ran high as the Wardens worked alongside the Inquisition troops to collect their own dead.

No matter how the battle had ended, many Inquisition soldiers were - quite vocally - loathe to burn the bodies of their friends alongside those who'd murdered them. Rylen couldn't say he blamed them, but he couldn't allow them to act on the pent up grief and aggression many of them harbored against the Wardens. Rylen suggested, and Cullen and Blackwall agreed, that they should keep the Wardens to a separate pyre a little ways off. This concession seemed to ease the agitation among Inquisition soldiers, and none too soon.

The lieutenants and their corporals in turn were also doing their best to account for all the soldiers in their units, whether alive, injured or dead. They would no doubt find that some soldiers had deserted on the way, but Rylen anticipated that number would be small. Nowhere to desert to when your battle takes place in the Western Approach, after all.

On his way back from another sobering round among those sorting through the dead, he passed through a narrow crevice in the rock that gently sloped upward for a short distance, concealing him from view of both the fortress and the Inquisition camp just around a bend in the rocky path. He paused there in that place where, for once, no eyes were on him. Staring up into the last vestiges of daylight, he watched as a few pinpricks of light came to life before wiping his grimy hand down his even grimier face.

He should feel something. He saw it in the eyes and wooden movements of his soldiers. He should feel it, too. Sorrow, grief, pain. _Something_. Right now, he only felt... numb.

Well, no, right now he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned to find Gwin staring up at him, hands on her hips. She'd chosen her location well - of course, she had. Only a fool would think a woman like Gwin had _accidentally_ bumped into him in the only place they might be able to have a private conversation.

She stood apart from him, as if she'd taken a step back after tapping him on the shoulder. Her mouth twisted in a familiar smirk, but wariness lurked in the depths of her eyes. Rylen blew out a breath, his gaze falling away as he pulled off his helmet and shoved a hand through his filthy hair. He didn't want to have this conversation now, but Gwin deserved more than a clumsy brush-off.

"Gwin. How are you? Did Solas manage to set off for the keep this evening?"

The wariness in her eyes spread to the set of her chin and the line of her mouth. "I'm well. And Solas is likely already at the keep by now." She paused, tilting her head to the side. "Should I give a salute to go along with my report, Knight-Captain?"

He laughed. It came out stilted and awkward.

"Nonsense," he denied with a shake of his head. "We're beyond that, you and I."

"I'd thought we were beyond stiff-necked pleasantries as well, but the last few times we've met, you've started us off with them."

"So I have," he conceded with a slight grimace. "Shall we have another go at it, then?"

Moving forward, he wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek as he'd done dozens of times when they'd met in Haven or the Hinterlands or along the Imperial Highway. She wrapped a single arm around him in a brief hug, pressing her lips to his cheek in return.

It felt... wrong.

He disengaged as quickly as possible, and Gwin looked at him for a long moment. He shifted his weight as she scrutinized him, and she shook her golden blond head as a chuckle slipped over her lips.

"So that's it, then. I might have known. Who is she?"

To his surprise and chagrin, his chest flooded with heat, which quickly spread up his neck and over his face. He thought she might not see it in the wan light, but Gwin's eyes widened. Then she threw back her head and laughed outright.

"Well, if I'd needed confirmation, I just got it!"

"No. It's not... Err..."

"Oh, come now, Rylen, you're really going to deny it after turning that rather lovely shade of crimson? You're acting all awkward around me. As if I might... what? Be jealous? Stake some sort of claim on you?"

He sighed, berating himself for being such a miserable coward. Apparently he was as new as a green recruit when it came to actually dealing with relationships. And no wonder, as he'd avoided them for most of his life.

"Apologies if I'm acting a fool, Gwin. Things have been... everything is different since I came to the Approach."

_Lie. Or at least not the whole truth._

He held her gaze for a moment, searching for the source of his own reticence in the silver depths of her eyes, as if she could suss out all the mysteries in his mixed-up head. Perhaps she could. Perhaps, coward that he was, he wanted her to so he didn't have to do it himself.

He'd always thought of himself as an honest, forthright type. It went against his grain to conceal things. Yet he'd been lying to himself for quite a while now about his own health, and it was entirely likely he'd been lying to himself about his real reasons for avoiding relationships as well.

Apparently he had no problem lying to others as long as he was lying to himself as well.

But he'd waited too long to speak. Gwin's eyes shifted up to the darkening sky as she huffed out a breathy laugh and wiped a hand over her face.

"So, you don't want to have sex with me anymore," she said matter-of-factly. "So what? I've told you before, I don't expect anything from you. Why can't you seem to believe it?"

He shrugged, feeling chastened by her tone as well as his own behavior. "Experience has taught me to be cautious, I suppose."

She shook her head and peered up at him, clearly exasperated. "I like you, Rylen. And we had a lot of fun together. But if you want to leave off the sexy times, you don't owe me an explanation. You just have to _tell_ me. Whatever happens, though, no more formal greetings. It's pissing me off."

Rylen laughed again - this time a full, natural laugh. "Fair enough, lass. For what it's worth, I had a lovely time with you. I'd like us to be friends."

"We _are_ friends, you dope," she returned with a comfortable smile. Then, her smile turned sly. "I _am_ curious, though. What made you change your mind about getting serious with someone?"

How could he answer that? Gwin was a lovely person, as were most of the women he'd been with over the years. None of them made him _want_ the way Trice did. None of them could destroy him with a word or a look like she could.

It hadn't been a conscious decision. Everything about himself and Trice had happened _in spite_ of his rules, in spite of how he'd arranged his life to avoid complications. Slowly, without him realizing, being with Trice had become like breathing - a necessity of life.

The thought terrified him as much as it exhilarated him.

And perhaps that was the source of his reluctance to speak with Gwin. She embodied his old way of life - staying distant, remaining unattached. Letting go of her meant he'd truly given up on the rules that had protected him all these years. It meant he had to buck up and start tackling his own problems with as much single-mindedness as he did with every other problem he encountered. It meant admitting that his affections had been irrevocably claimed by a single woman. A singular woman.

And there came that thought again, the one he'd pushed away the night they'd revealed their scarred bodies to one another. The simple and yet complicated truth that he wasn't quite ready to accept.

"I met her on my way to the Approach for all of twenty minutes on a dock in Val Royeaux. When we met again four months later, I hadn't forgotten. Neither had she." He shrugged, looking down as he spun his helmet around in his hands. "We certainly didn't plan it. In fact, we..."

"You fought it, didn't you?"

"For a time," he admitted, "though she's the one who... err, she had her own reasons for keeping me at a distance. Her children, for one."

Silence permeated the air between them, and Rylen looked up to find Gwin staring at him with wide eyes. He'd apparently rendered her speechless with that little tidbit. Finally, she shook herself out of it and huffed a little in surprise.

"Well. When you go in, you go all in, don't you?"

Rylen bit his lip and looked away to keep the obvious response behind his teeth, but when his roving eyes collided with Gwin's again, he didn't have to say a word. They both burst into laughter.

"I walked right into that one," she said through a final chuckle. "Though I suppose the sex jokes are probably off limits... for a while anyway?"

"Eh... probably. For a while."

She nodded. "I'll do my best." A heartbeat of silence passed between them before Gwin bounced up on her toes and waggled her eyebrows at him. "So. The keep's cook, then?"

He smirked a little, both at Gwin's deduction and the thought of Trice. "They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Who am I to gainsay the masses?"

"You're hopeless," she said with a shake of her head.

"In this case, quite definitely," he agreed without hesitation, the truth coming more easily now that they'd gotten past the difficult part. He gave Gwin a contemplative look. "I actually think you'd get on with one another. She's... sharp. And she takes no guff from me, that's for certain."

"Sounds like my kind of woman," she acknowledged, her head tilted to the side. "I'd best keep my distance for a time, though. I don't want to cause either of you any trouble. You and I weren't exactly secretive."

He snorted. "When have you been anything _but_ trouble, lass?"

"I'm good when I want to be," she said in a mock defensive tone.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

She took a deep breathe, clearly biting her tongue. Then, she reached out and gave him a friendly bump on the upper arm with her closed fist.

"I'll see you around camp, Knight-Captain."

The words slid out easily and deliberately. "It's just captain now, actually."

She lifted a brow. "Is it?"

"Aye."

Her mouth quirked into a lopsided grin as she skirted around him. "Yes, ser, _Captain_ , ser!"

"Off with ye!" he growled playfully, faux kicking at her retreating backside and then laughing with her as she jogged toward the bend that would take her to the Inquisition camp.

Despite his lingering grin, a strange tightness took up residence in his chest while he watched her go. Just as she reached the turn, he almost called out to her. Self-doubt, however, stayed his tongue, and he simply raised a hand to return the small wave she gave him before she disappeared around the corner.

He followed behind her slowly, his smile fading with the day's light.

 

___________________________

 

Katlin rolled up a towel and snapped it at Trice's backside. "Get out of here, woman!"

Trice had just enough wherewithal to swerve out of Katlin's reach as she toted another load of dishes to the washing sink. The kitchen staff still buzzed with the news of the Inquisition victory, though both Katlin and Trice had been in suspense until nearly midday before messages from Rylen and later Esthiel arrived.

Trice looked back to scowl at her assistant. They frowned at one another for a few seconds before Katlin lost it. Trice allowed herself a smile, but she couldn't muster laughter. Too often, moments of dread punctuated her general sense of relief. They'd won the battle, and Rylen was safe. But Jean-Marc was still in danger.

"Dinner is almost ready. There's no point in leaving now. I've already done all the work."

"Yes, but you look like the risen dead," Katlin argued. "One look at your ghastly face, and all this work will have been for nothing - they'll lose their appetites for sure."

"Gee, thanks," Trice replied dryly. "I can always count on you to break it to me gently, can't I?"

Katlin shrugged. "If it needs saying, I'll say it."

"Of that I am well aware."

"You love it." Katlin grinned as she lifted the rag in her hand and began wiping down tables. "And you look like shite."

As she sent Katlin a dirty look, she caught sight of a corner of parchment peeking out of the other woman's skirt pocket. Katlin had been walking on air since the arrival of the message from Esthiel. Too bad her assistant cook's good mood didn't encourage her to be more gracious to her friends. Trice had left her own message in her room, but she'd already memorized the brief lines:

_Trice, I've survived thanks to you. I owe you my life, love. I can't make promises concerning Stroud. Resources are thin. But you know he's important to me. I'll do all I can for him. Yours, Rylen_

She desperately wanted to talk with him, to touch him, to make sure he was truly unhurt. The keep, already a ghost town compared to the days leading up to the battle, felt desolate without his presence. Even cheeky Katlin couldn't fill the void, though she was doing her damnedest.

"I'm being dead serious, now, boss lady. I really think you need to take your ghoulish-"

"Madame Valera, a word?"

Trice jumped at Mallory's voice suddenly cutting across the kitchen to where she stood with Katlin. She looked over to find him standing in the doorway, and the rest of the kitchen staff quieted to a low murmur. It took a poke in the ribs from Katlin to get Trice moving.

"Oh. Yes. One moment."

Trice hurriedly wiped her hands on her apron and then untied it. Katlin took it from her and gave her a little push toward the door.

"And don't come back!" she hissed at Trice's back.

"I love you, too," Trice murmured over her shoulder.

"I'm serious. I've got the kiddos. Get rid of spy man, then _go to bed_!"

Trice didn't respond to Katlin's hissed demands, instead focusing on the man in the doorway. Did he have news about Jean-Marc? Or, Maker forbid, had something happened to Rylen after all?

"Can I get you something to eat?" she asked instead.

He looked over her shoulder at the staff preparing the comparatively small meal for those left in the keep. He shrugged his acquiescence, but she saw the hungry gleam in his eye. She waited until she'd turned back to the staff to let out the little smile of satisfaction.

"Andall, please prepare a plate."

"Yes, ma'am!"

She turned and took the final steps toward Mallory with a questioning look. "Have you news?"

He nodded. "Of a sort. An agent sent a message that one of the Inquisitor's companions is on his way back to the keep on urgent business. She mentions that this companion happens to be a mage."

Trice's whole body tensed. "An elf?"

Mallory gave her a suspicious look. "Yes. Why?"

Rylen hadn't simply found a mage for her. He'd sent her the very one who'd been in the Fade with the Warden. Of course, he had. She looked up at Mallory, who had likely already put together much of her story even without her to fill in the blanks, and wrinkled her nose.

She could come up with another half-truth and deflect him for a while longer, but... she was tired. Tired of lying. Tired of hiding. Tired of living a half life filled with nothing but fear and dread. The Inquisition had protected her up to now. Perhaps, with her talent, she could someday return the favor and be of some use to them.

"I... I suppose it's time I told you the whole story, hmmm?"

"I'd appreciate it, Madame," he responded in a dry tone.

When his food arrived, she quietly led him to her quarters, settled him at her table, and proceeded to lay out the whole story - her visions, her increased nightmares, her connection with the demon that had been controlling the Warden mages, and finally her walk with the Inquisitor in the Fade. Her heart raced, her palms sweating where they grasped at her elbows. Mallory had been skeptical of her assertions this morning, even as he'd watched two children, two guards, and a healer grapple with a woman who wouldn't wake up. She had no idea how he would react to the whole truth.

It would be just her luck that he wouldn't believe her when she finally told the truth.

"And so that's why the Inquisitor's companion is coming here," she concluded. "We're trying to find a way to help Warden Stroud escape the Fade."

Mallory had long ago finished his plate, and he now stood in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Despite his gruff manner, she'd never considered him intimidating... until now. His eyes remained on the floor, and the silence stretched between them. She shuffled from one foot to the other as she waited for his response.

Finally, he pushed off the wall and walked back to the table. He reached down and picked up a small sheaf of paper. She instantly recognized it as Rylen's note.

"So, that's what Rylen meant in this message back to you? You warned him of an attempt on his life?"

"Yes, though I'm not sure of the details - how he avoided the situation or if... if he was injured in some way."

Mallory stood motionless at the table, the note from Rylen hanging from his fingertips as he drilled holes in the floor with his eyes. He looked at the page once more before fixing his intense gaze on her. Time stretched on, his calculating stare serving to make her fidget with her sleeves as she barely held back a screeching plea to just _say it already_.

"Rylen believes you," he finally acknowledged. "That's good enough for me. Whatever you and this companion, Solas, need, you'll have it."

Trice slapped a hand over her mouth to cover a relieved laugh. Once she'd composed herself, she dropped her hand and exhaled forcefully.

"Thank you, Mallory."

With a gruff nod, he laid Rylen's message on the table. "I'll find you as soon as the mage arrives."

"I'll be here, I imagine. I don't know what Solas will need from me, so I think I'll try to get some sleep."

"Good plan," he affirmed before he slipped out the door, leaving Trice to stare at her bed in trepidation.

 

**

 

In the end, she fell asleep easily, her fear of demons no match for weeks of sleep deprivation. A firm knock at her door roused her out of a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep, and she sat up to rub at her eyes. The room was dark, which meant she'd slept at least four hours, if not more. Mallory's muffled voice through the door pulled her further into wakefulness.

"Madame Valera?"

The memory of their earlier conversation came back in a rush, and Trice jumped off the bed. She threw open the door just as Mallory was raising his hand to knock again.

"Mallory," she said in a rush before turning to the man beside him. "And you must be Solas."

The elf inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I am. You are Trice, the seer?"

She felt a bit of heat bloom on her cheeks. It still felt surreal to consider herself a "seer," let alone have others refer to her in that way.

"I... I am. Please, come in."

Solas entered the room. He walked just as gracefully as she remembered. Mallory remained in the doorway.

"Solas assured me you will have no need of my services for now. You'll come find me if that changes, of course."

It wasn't a question, and he looked directly at her as he said it. She gave Solas a sidelong glance and then nodded to Mallory, who promptly stepped back and closed the door. She turned to Solas, her nerves jangling under her skin. He swept his cool, appraising gaze over her.

"You must tell me everything about your encounters with the Nightmare demon," he instructed. "The more I know, the likelier I am to find a solution."

Glad to have a directive, Trice motioned for him to sit at the table and proceeded to repeat much of her previous speech to Mallory. The more she spoke the words out loud, the more absurd they seemed to her ears. And yet she'd experienced it all. Solas, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble believing her story.

"The spirit at the end. You said it mentioned bringing you a previous dream?"

"Not... a dream. They've never been dreams until now. I have visions - flashes of events and places. Usually, they begin when I'm emotionally overwrought. I didn't realize they could be portents of future events until I arrived here. The dreams started around the same time."

This seemed to surprise the elf. "These flashes come to you while you are awake?"

"I've learned to suppress them, but yes. If I stay in the vision too long, I can become insensible to my surroundings, but I'm always awake."

"Interesting," Solas breathed, then he shook his head as if to redirect his thoughts. "But I do not believe it relevant to our particular problem at the moment."

"So... how will we find Warden Stroud? I assume you have a plan of some sort."

"A vague one, yes," he affirmed with a small smile. "With your permission, I will attempt to find you in the Fade tonight. I have done it with both mages and non mages before, so I do not anticipate problems there. Then, we will use your ability to see the Fade as it actually is to search for Stroud."

"What if I only had that ability because of the demon?"

"I do not believe that is the case, but I will know more when I can meet you in the Fade."

She looked around her, contemplating possible arrangements in the small room. "I suppose, one of the children can sleep with me in my bed if you wish to take one of the cots?"

"You need not trouble yourself. I will find a spot to sleep elsewhere."

"Oh. And you'll still be able to find me?"

He inclined his head. "Having now met with you in person, I am confident I will be able to find you in the Fade."

"So, we're just going to go to sleep? Separately?"

"Yes. If you are amenable, I would prefer to begin immediately. Stroud has been in the Fade for almost a full day, and I am unsure how extended exposure might affect him."

Trice's chest tightened, and she nodded her acquiescence. Solas immediately turned away, but he paused with his hand on the door handle and looked back.

"If you need time to arrange care for your children, feel free to do so. I will await you in the Fade."

The door clicked shut behind him, and Trice stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Her children. Yes. Pushing her body into motion, she headed down to Katlin's room on the lower level. A sliver of light under the door told her Katlin was likely there, but the quiet made her slightly nervous. She knocked, and the door opened a moment later.

"Oi, what are you doing here?" Katlin whispered. "You're supposed to be sleeping, you daft woman!"

"The children... I came to-"

"The children are fine." Katlin backed away from the door. "Clara-bug is already down for the count, and Jackie is reading one of those giant tomes he's always toting around."

Jacques looked up briefly and gave Trice a smile and wave before burying his face in his book again. Clara's black hair peeked out from a pile of blankets on the floor.

"Are you sure? Where will Jacques sleep?"

"I've got another big pile of blankets for him, too. I'll keep them safe and sound until breakfast. Now, will you stop worrying and go back to bed? Please?"

Katlin stood with her hands on her hips, a toe tapping impatiently against the stones. Trice looked at her friend and then enveloped Katlin in a giant hug.

"Thank you," she whispered into Katlin's wild curls. "Thank you."

Katlin wrapped her arms around Trice and gave a fierce squeeze in return. "Anytime. You should know that by now. Whatever you need, you just say so. Got it?"

"Got it," she mumbled before slowly letting go.

Katlin's eyes glimmered suspiciously in the candlelight, and she turned away with a huff. "Now get out. Jackie's going to read his dwarven scientific theory book to me. We'll both be snoring in no time."

Trice gave a watery laugh before slowly backing out of the room. She closed the door to the soft sound of Jacques' voice reciting something about the applications of curved glass.

 

**

 

"Good evening, Trice."

True to his word, Solas' voice greeted her almost as soon as she fell asleep. She looked around her and recognized the area as the same place she'd been dropped last night before she'd started walking.

"Good evening, Solas. Should we compare notes about what we see?"

"That would be an excellent place to start, as I am almost certain we are seeing different things."

Trice tried not to let her unease show through as she began pointing out landmarks around them. "There's a large outcropping where the rock overhangs what looks to be a path. Over there is a spire of rock stretching up into the sky."

Solas peered in the direct she pointed, finally nodding. "Yes, I am beginning to see. Continue."

She proceeded to describe a few more landmarks and a few objects nearby. Each time he asked questions, it became clearer that he'd managed to piece together something similar to what she could see.

"This will do for now. We should begin walking. I will question any spirits we meet as to whether they have seen Stroud."

And so they walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Finally, Trice made out the vague shape of a spirit ahead. Without a word, they both slowed to a stop.

"You see it?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. What does it look like to you?"

"Not much. A vague haze of yellow light. I didn't even recognize them as spirits for my first few dreams."

"And the spirit who came to lead Stroud?"

"Stronger than the spirit there. I could see a vague outline and could hear it speak if I listened carefully."

Solas hummed thoughtfully before beginning to walk once more. "I will speak to it."

So Trice stood by while Solas appeared to have a one-side conversation with a wisp of fog. She could tell by his side of the conversation that the spirit knew nothing of Jean-Marc. She tried to hold back her disappointment. It was only their first spirit after all. She would likely need to get used to-

"Prescience? Which direction did it come from?" Solas asked in a suddenly intense voice.

He swung his head in the direction they'd come from before narrowing his gaze on the nebulous haze. He seemed to be listening intently. Then he fixed his gaze on Trice.

"It is a spirit of joviality, so straight answers are difficult. However, it claims it felt a spirit of prescience pass by some time ago."

A thrill swept through Trice's body. "Then we're on the right track?"

"I should clarify. First, I am making an assumption that this is the spirit we are looking for based on the fact that it is a spirit of prescience. It is possible, however, that it is the wrong spirit. Second, this spirit sensed Prescience but did not see it. Therefore, we only have a general sense of its direction." Solas' expression turned grim. "We should move on. We will not- What?" Solas turned to the spirit again. "I am speaking with my companion."

He listened for a moment before his eyes slowly narrowed. He turned back to her with a curious expression on his face.

"The spirit cannot see you. It believes I am speaking to myself and is... quite amused."

Trice nodded, well aware of the way the hazes typically ignored her. "The spirit with Jean-Marc is the first spirit other than what you call the Nightmare that I've been able to interact with in the Fade."

Solas considered for a moment. "It is possible, then, that spirits would not be able to see Jean-Marc, is it not?"

Trice pondered the idea but then shook her head. "He's here physically. I'm not. I don't know if we can make that kind of supposition."

He nodded. "I believe you are right. We lack information." He looked toward the haze and shook his head. "The spirit is becoming quite interested in both of us. I believe it is time to proceed on our journey."

He led the way down a narrow path that angled left. She took in her surroundings, the seemingly unchanging landscape that never quite became familiar. Unwilling to walk in silence anymore, Trice tried to strike up conversation with Solas.

"You seem to have a general sense of which direction to go, even without confirmation from the spirit," she remarked.

"Before I left Adamant Fortress, I spoke with an Inquisition agent who has been scouting the Approach for several weeks now. She had just returned from a location known to Orlesians as the Hissing Wastes. I asked her about open rifts there, and she confirmed the existence of at least four rifts in the area, likely more."

"And you believe these are the closest rifts so therefore the most likely place for our spirit to be heading?"

"The Fade will be different, of course, but, yes, I am using that as a guiding principle."

They picked their way over what seemed to be some sort of landslide over the trail. When they reached the other side, Solas glanced at her curiously.

"I have a question for you, if I may?"

"Well, you already know more about me than most people, so why not?"

"Your visions, have you ever been able to control or direct them?"

Trice shrugged. "Beyond trying to make them go away? No. As I mentioned, I didn't even know they were visions of the future until just recently. I dreaded them, especially ones during waking hours. Seeing how mages were treated, I had no desire to be labeled one."

"And yet it is what you are."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But I can't make fire or ice or heal people. I can't even predict my own visions."

"You mentioned they are more likely to occur when you are upset?"

"Upset, exhausted, under pressure... anything that takes up room in my head."

Solas hummed, seemingly deep in thought. They walked on. Trice wondered that she didn't feel tired after what must be hours of walking. Solas' way of bringing her to the Fade was far more... pleasant than the Nightmare demon.

"If you are amenable," Solas said into the silence, "I could help you learn to control your visions, perhaps even direct them. At least until the Inquisitor has use for me once more."

She jerked her head toward the elf, who walked slightly ahead of her now. "Not to sound ungrateful, but... why would you bother?"

Solas glanced back at her before facing forward once more. "Your magic interests me. It would be an enjoyable way to pass the time."

Apparently, Rylen had found her an answer for two problems in one. "Would you need to work with me during the day, then?"

"Preferably. We should confirm that you can truly do no other magic."

Trice took a moment to consider. On one hand, she had already decided to take her talent more seriously. She needed to learn about it, and who better to teach her than an accomplished mage? And an apostate, no less, who had likely taught himself how to control his own magic. On the other hand, with the Nightmare demon defeated, she no longer needed to worry about dangerous dreams. At least not until another group of insane people tried to open a giant rift and pull a powerful demon through it.

She shivered, her hands coming up to rub at her arms. She reminded herself that she had no idea if the Nightmare demon's interference would have lasting consequences on her weak magic. She needed Solas if only to confirm that all would go back to normal now.

"Very well. I can begin tomorrow."

"Excellent. I will see you soon, then."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "What?"

"You are beginning to wake."

"Oh, but..." Panic bubbled up as she struggled to hold on to her place in the Fade. "What about our search? What about Warden Stroud?"

"I will continue the search. You have given me a lead - a spirit to search for - that I did not have before. When you wake, you should speak to Agent Mallory and have him dispatch people who can watch the rifts in the Waste. If Stroud makes it back from the Fade, he will be weak and in need of assistance."

"I... yes, I can do that."

"Good. I will remain here as long as I can. I will find you when I wake."

 

**

 

Trice woke up to pale morning light trickling in through her small window. She threw back the covers, her heart already racing with equal parts dread and hope.

They hadn't made as much progress last night as she'd hoped, but she would speak with Mallory about agents in the Hissing Wastes. If nothing else, they could provide a foothold should the Inquisitor wish to visit in order to close the rifts.

Her heart clenched at the thought of those rifts closing with Jean-Marc still on the other side. She could still see the rift gradually stitching together during that terrible night in the Fade. It had terrified her to watch his only escape route grow smaller with every second. She could feel the horror of it clinging to the edges of her memory even now.

She couldn't imagine what Jean-Marc must be feeling. If he were even still alive.

She sat on the edge of her bed and buried her face in her hands. _Maker, please be with him. Guide him._

She sat there, the horror and sorrow melding into a steady heartbeat of alarm, timed with the beating of her own heart. The rhythm pounded into her consciousness, and as if on cue, the flashes started slow, hesitant.

Trice's whole body tensed as she instinctively began the process of shutting them down. But Solas' words echoed in her head, and reluctantly, in the midst of her terror, she let the images come. She struggled against every impulse to press on her temples, breathe through it, stifle it. The beats came faster, the images expanding to fill her vision.

_Trees and sun. A man - no Jean-Marc wearing strange clothes and no armor! - laughing, swinging a child in the air. A woman in red in the background with something small and black in her hands._

Instinctively, she knew there was more. Trice dug her fingers into the bed linens to ground herself in reality even as she tentatively reached out with her mind to ask for more. The images shifted, the beats coming on faster, more reckless, now encompassing her.

_Sitting in a chair beside a bed. Others hover around the bed as well. Jean-Marc, but much older, gray-haired with deep wrinkles, lying in the bed, smiling up at the ceiling before closing his eyes in sleep or in death. Grave. Death. Decay. Dying-_

Trice sucked in a ragged breath as the flashes stopped suddenly, leaving her reeling... and strangely bereft. Her vision cleared, and her racing heart gradually slowed as she pondered what she'd seen.

She sensed even now that she'd only scratched the surface of what had been available to her. Even so, the simple act of accepting the visions seemed to have given her a modicum of control over them. She'd never thought to shape them to her own will before. She had only ever feared them - their coming and the horrible images they often brought.

These images hadn't been all horrible, though. Perhaps they were a gift from the spirit now leading Jean-Marc through the Fade - something to work toward.

However, the images left her uneasy for a different reason. So much of it had been unfamiliar. The clothing and surroundings, buildings and furnishings, all had an alien look and feel. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered that Jean-Marc would be free of the Fade, but he would not be returning to Thedas. But if not Thedas, where would Jean-Marc be?

Mechanically, she got up, sponged herself off and dressed for the day. The images divulged a strange and unknown future, but she couldn't deny the most important revelation - Jean-Marc _had a future_. She just had to make sure it came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, I totally did that. Now, who's gonna write the Stroud on Earth AU? I'd read that.


	23. Sleeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comparitively short but important chapter in which Trice learns of Strouds' true fate... and that Solas is more than he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs during the end of Chapter 59 of Part 1.

Normally, Trice loved her job, but today, every moment she spent in the kitchen instead of in the Fade chafed at her soul. She let Katlin direct the staff during breakfast and dove into meal preparation in an attempt to distract herself with work. Immersing herself in the minutia helped, but after the soldiers left and the kitchen had been cleaned, Trice found herself stewing in her discontent yet again.

Luckily, Solas appeared mid morning, and because the keep was still relatively quiet, she skipped lunch prep to meet with him. When they reached her quarters, she proceeded to tell him of her vision earlier that morning. As she spoke, Solas' eyebrows gradually rose higher until they nearly hit the ceiling.

"A world not of Thedas or the Fade? Are you absolutely certain?"

"I suppose I could be mistaken, but it was like nothing I'd ever seen. Perhaps he'll end up across the Amaranthine Ocean? No one knows for certain what that land is like."

Solas hummed, something half between consideration and dismissal. "If only I could see your visions as well."

Trice considered that a moment before speaking tentatively. "I think that's why the Nightmare demon drew me into the Fade. He wanted to see what I could see. Although it's a wonder he didn't simply attempt to overpower the spirit giving me the visions in the first place."

"That is certainly something to consider. Perhaps the spirit cannot channel the visions but rather your magic combined with the spirit's power give the images form. Regardless, if these visions are true, which I am inclined to believe based on previous experience, we can be reasonably certain Stroud yet lives. And as your experience with the Nightmare demon indicates, your interference in the natural sequence of events can alter the outcome."

Trice hadn't considered that possibility - that she could change the outcome of Jean-Marc's fate - but as Solas pointed out, she'd done it before. Her next question had to be: Should she? Selfishly, for her own and Rylen's sakes, she wished for Jean-Marc to return to them. But her visions had shown the Warden's life as peaceful and filled with love and family. Would interfering with her vision take that away? Or worse, kill him? She was loathe to risk undoing all she'd accomplished in keeping Jean-Marc alive.

"I suppose we'll cross that bridge if we come to it," she finally replied. "We have to _find_ him first."

"An excellent point," Solas conceded. "But for now, we should concentrate on your magic. I would like you to explain the sequence of events leading up to one of your visions. I do not expect you to produce one on demand, though that is the eventual goal, of course."

Trice nodded and proceeded to walk Solas through a typical vision. However, because this morning's vision had been the first that she hadn't attempted to shut down, she couldn't say for certain that she'd been able to direct what she'd seen.

"I could sense more under the surface," she explained. "It felt like I might be able to uncover it, but I didn't know how."

Solas nodded as he pondered what she'd told him, his eyes narrowing in thought. "It could be that you have the ability to control the visions. The next time you feel a vision approaching, do as you did today. I will keep a small part of my focus on you as I continue to search for Stroud." He lowered his voice, as if talking more to himself than to Trice. "If I could but see it occur from the Fade, I am certain I could better assist you."

She frowned. "But won't we be together in the Fade already while we're searching?"

"I will continue to search today while you attend your duties," he explained. "Based on what I learned from you last night, I believe I have made progress, though I have yet to meet another spirit. That portion of the Fade had been in the control of the Nightmare for some time, it seems. It will be many years before spirits walk that area uninhibited."

"If spirits are reluctant to enter that area of the Fade, how did we end up meeting with a spirit of joviality, of all things?"

Solas chuckled fondly. "Spirits of cheer or joviality often lack a sense of self-preservation."

"I see."

She didn't. Not really. But Solas was the expert, or so Mallory had been told by Rylen who'd been told by _Seeker Pentaghast_ , of all people. She'd heard that the Seeker who'd saved the Divine from a dragon in Val Royeaux was a founding member of the Inquisition, but to have that same Seeker go so far as to recommend an apostate mage - to a templar, no less - seemed far-fetched. Yet Mallory hadn't questioned it, and Solas was a companion to the Inquisitor, who was also a mage. Trice gave a mental shrug and focused on Solas' words.

"Go about your regular day," he instructed. "I will retrieve you if I should stumble across anything of import."

"You can just fall back to sleep even after sleeping all night?"

Solas' lips curled into something of a secretive smile. "I have trained myself to sleep and wake on command. I will have no trouble returning to the Fade."

_Well, there you go._

Trice bid Solas farewell and returned to the kitchen feeling a bit overwhelmed and a lot useless. She spent the remainder of the day alternating between panic every time she thought of how long Jean-Marc had been in the Fade and irritation at the duties that kept her from joining Solas to search for him.

Finally, _finally_ , she finished in the kitchen for the day, and the Valera family trudged back to their room. Studying had been put aside in the week before the assault, and Trice had no desire to renew the lessons tonight. Exhaustion from weeks of interrupted sleep weighed her down. As soon as Clara fell asleep while Jacques read an Antivan fairy tale out loud from one of his books, Trice gladly put Clara to bed, admonished Jacques not to stay up too late, and fell upon her own bed in a heap. It didn't take long for her to find herself in the Fade once more.

 

**

 

Instead of arriving in the same place she had the past two nights, Trice came to in a completely unfamiliar part of the Fade. She looked around, disoriented, until her eyes lit upon Solas standing a few paces off. He nodded to her in greeting before waving her forward. Without a word, she began walking in the direction he indicated, and he fell in step beside her as she examined her new surroundings.

Her general impression was that, like coming back from a journey to find a child half grown up, one didn't notice the gradual change in terrain until one skipped over a significant portion of the points between. From the differences, she gathered they were far away from where Griffon Wing Keep might overlap with the Fade. The rocks and outcroppings remained, but the landscape now bore the mark of man-made things. Ancient ruins of castles, bridges and roads dotted the flat expanses.

"I came across two more spirits a short time ago," Solas said into the silence that had gathered between them. "They confirmed the presence of a spirit of prescience as well. I believe we are still on the right track."

For the first time since the previous evening, Trice allowed herself a modicum of hope. "And Jean-Marc?"

"As before, they did not see anything. I suspect this spirit of yours is rather powerful."

"It would have to be for me to see and hear it," she agreed with a nod.

As they lapsed into silence once more, Trice's thoughts turned to the strange series of events that had led her here - walking the Fade with an apostate mage in search of a missing Grey Warden. Had it been only six months ago that she'd been happily oblivious to her own power, convinced that her greatest threat came from a bitter countess?

During the past week, Trice had come to terms with the fact that she harbored a bit of magic. Deep down, she'd known it for half her life. But she still understood next to nothing about her power. In that, Solas had disappointed her. She'd hoped, being an expert in the Fade, he'd sweep in and explain everything in detail. Yet he seemed as baffled by her weak and unusual magic as she.

Regardless, she couldn't deny his proficiency in magic and knowledge of the Fade in general terms. In fact, the way he effortlessly manipulated her location and presence in the Fade tickled at notes of alarm in the recesses of her mind. He must be powerful indeed to sense her and direct her weak magic from so far away. So far in her life, only the Nightmare demon had been able to control her sleeping mind so easily.

And now Solas.

Cold fingers of disquiet crept up her spine as the two of them continued on in silence. Could Solas be tricking her? Leading her into some sort of trap?

Almost before the thought fully formed, she banished it and, as much as she could, the feeling behind it. What purpose could he have in deceiving her? The idea was laughable. He was certainly no demon, and he'd been studying the Fade for years. Her lack of understanding - and his own confusion concerning her magic, for that matter - didn't mean he bore her ill will. Seeker Pentaghast had recommended him. The Inquisitor apparently trusted him. She put away her misgivings and focused on increasing her pace.

They continued on, but as with their previous excursion, the night crept by with little to guide them beyond Solas' vague sense they were headed in the right direction. Eventually, tired of the silence, she began asking him tentative questions about how he'd learned so much about the Fade.

That seemed to do the trick. Solas looked over at her, obvious pleasure lighting his angular face, and began telling her all about his explorations in the realm of demons and spirits. In minute detail. Her mind swam with the glut of information, and she struggled to catalogue the nuggets of wisdom. Still, he talked on, and she goaded him with additional questions, shocked at his sudden willingness to speak at length.

Before she knew it, the increasingly familiar sensation of waking pulled at her. She panicked.

"Solas, I'm waking up. We still haven't found Warden Stroud!"

"I will continue to search," he assured her. "Remember to allow the vision to come if you should find yourself under its thrall."

 

**

 

She awoke into a later and brighter morning than she'd anticipated. Both Jacques and Clara's beds were empty, and she felt a motivating jolt of shame and anxiety shoot through her.

Shoving the covers aside, she stumbled to the washbasin and hastily cleaned herself as well as she could. Vaguely, she wondered if baths might be allowed now that the water rations had increased to normal levels. She hadn't properly bathed in weeks. As she threw on a clean gown, she grimaced at herself in the warped mirror of brass hanging on the wall and acknowledged that she wasn't the only one. Since the water rations went into effect, the ripeness of the bodies packed into the kitchen had killed her appetite more than once.

Now, she plucked at the loose waist of the dress that revealed the results of the stress, lack of sleep and nausea of the past few weeks. She didn't often wear it because of the thick fabric and the style - buttons instead of laces - which made the alteration in her appearance all the more obvious. As with the gradual change in the Fade, her laced gowns and lack of a proper mirror had hidden the weight loss.

Dropping her arms to her sides, she abandoned the mirror and exited the room. She jogged up the stairs while deft fingers combed through her black tresses and then braided them away from her face.

The sounds of childish laughter eased some of her tension at being late as she entered the kitchen. Everything appeared to be in order. Jacques and Clara sat at the far table peeling potatoes while the rest of the staff bustled about the kitchen. In fact, only Katlin looked up at Trice's entrance. The woman gave her a fond scowl followed by a brilliant smile.

"I'd hoped you'd still be dead to the world, but as you're awake, come over here and knead this dough."

Trice obliged the pushy woman by washing her hands and then punching at the ball of dough. Punch, fold, punch, fold. She did her best to keep her thoughts on her work, but she couldn't keep from worrying over Jean-Marc.

On top of that, she had yet to hear from Rylen again after his brief message two days ago. His previous note had allayed fears about him being injured, but now she wondered about his health in other areas. Admittedly, one in particular. He'd never reveal that in a letter, though, even if she asked point blank. But she wondered whether the stress of battle had made his symptoms worse, and she worried that, with him taking care of everyone else, no one would think to take care of him. She wished he'd send another note, even just a line to let her know he was as well as could be. No doubt he was far too busy to write, but Katlin unknowingly poured salt in that wound with a single, conspiratorial whisper.

"Got another missive from Essi this morning. Guess who's due back at the keep today?"

Trice's heart lodged in her throat, and Katlin scowled at the look of hope apparent on her face. The young woman shook her head.

"Nay. Sorry. I should know better than to say such things at a time like this. Essi says soldiers are still on clean-up detail at the fortress - the captain and commander among them."

The lump in Trice's throat plummeted to her gut like a lead weight. "Who then? Surely not more chevaliers?"

"We should be so lucky," Katlin snorted. "No. This visitor puts 'em to shame. I'm talking about the Inquisitor!"

Trice looked at Katlin dumbly for a moment. Then, without a word, she spun around, stalked out of the kitchen and threw open the door to the store room. Pushing aside memories of her and Rylen's absolutely inappropriate, mind-blowing tryst, she began inventorying the contents of the room. As if she didn't already know every ingredient stacked in crates and on shelves around the room - or rather the lack thereof. Katlin joined her a moment later, her expression at once perplexed and annoyed.

"What're you doing, woman?"

"The Inquisitor is coming here today," she said, as if the answer were obvious.

"And?"

"And we need to impress her!" Trice cried with a note of impatience in her tone.

Katlin furrowed her brows. "She was here a few days ago, and you didn't lose your smalls over it then."

"Because I was busy feeding hundreds of soldiers! I don't have that excuse today."

"Alright, boss lady," Katlin conceded with an air of resignation. "What should we do? Cook up a big meal? Create a flurry of pastries for her to choose from?"

Trice put a hand to her head, a sharp ache taking up residence as she looked over their paltry remains. They'd done their best to keep up with requisitions and supply requests, but in the final days before the battle, it had taken all of Trice's skill and experience to keep things together. The result was an empty store room and a vague sense of panic that, after all this, the Inquisitor would send her away.

After allowing herself the moment of panic, however, she squared her shoulders. She'd faced worse challenges, one of them only a couple of nights before. She looked around, falling into her chosen role. She might be terrible at magic and ineffective at finding a single Grey Warden in the Fade, but _this_ she could do.

"Alright, well... we have some dried apples and pumpkin. There's a bit of rice left. And we always have eggs, thank the Maker. The cows are still producing milk, so we can make butter... No salt, but there's pepper and dill and dried lemon zest. If we only had more flour..." She trailed off and turned to grimace at her friend. "We don't have much until the next supply wagons arrive. They aren't due for two more days."

Katlin shrugged. "Maybe after a big battle, the Inquisitor isn't looking for anything fancy. Maybe something simple would do better. I bet they're clean worn out after all that fighting - Essi said no one's slept much in the past three days."

Trice looked back at the paltry stores and nodded slowly. "You're right. Keeping things simple is our best option. At least for now."

Katlin smirked. "A solid plan, boss. Let's get to it, shall we?"

 

**

 

The Inquisitor and her companions arrived late in the evening, just after supper. When a newer lieutenant, a man named Rossen, relayed that the Inquisitor would like a simple meal brought to her quarters, Katlin scared the daylights out of him by crowing out her I-told-you-so from the back of the kitchen.

"I knew they wouldn't want nothing too fancy!"

Trice rolled her eyes and turned back to the lieutenant. "You can ignore the impertinent one in the back. We've prepared a charcuterie and cheese board with bread, mustard, and fig jam for the Inquisitor and companions."

"Excellent. Ahh..." Lieutenant Rossen's cheeks pinked slightly as he lowered his voice. "You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of wine hidden somewhere?"

Trice blinked. "I... uh... no. I'm sorry."

He grimaced. "I didn't think so. One of the Inquisitor's companions requested wine, though, and I was hoping I could get it for him."

"I see," Trice said with a barely concealed smile. "Well, you can tell him that the supply wagons arriving within the next day or so should have a few barrels on board for his enjoyment. Perhaps that will be enough to get you into his good graces."

The lieutenants cheeks turned pinker. "Ah, yes. Thank you. That's... thank you."

Trice ushered him out of the kitchen bearing the simple meal they'd prepared. Then she collected the children, waved to Katlin and headed back to her own quarters for the evening. Conscious of the time she'd spent away from the Fade, Trice sped through a few lessons with Jacques and Clara before settling Clara and then herself in bed.

But disappointment and fear mingled ever nearer the surface of her composure as Trice and Solas spent another unfruitful night walking the realm of spirits and demons. Solas shared even more about the Fade, and she began to understand the nature of the place as well as a bit of the magic behind it.

By the time wakefulness began to tug at her once more, however, they were no closer to finding Jean-Marc. They hadn't even come across a spirit to tell them they were headed in the right direction. She stopped in the middle of an open area and sat down heavily on a nearby rock.

"It's been more than three days now, Solas. I'm beginning to think..."

She couldn't bring herself to say the words. Even if he'd had a skin of water, even if he'd taken some rations into battle, even with the famed Grey Warden stamina, she didn't see how he could survive much longer. She tried to hold the tears at bay, but Solas' somber expression fed her anxiety. She put her hands over her face and breathed deeply even as her heart began to pound wildly in her chest. Solas' voice echoed softly in her ear despite the jagged angles and hard surfaces surrounding them.

"Trice."

She shook her head, willing herself to calm down before she faced him. His voice came again, this time more insistent.

"Trice, look up."

Trice pulled her hands away from her face and wiped at her watery eyes. "What?"

Her vision cleared in time to see a vague outline of a spirit floating toward them. As it came closer, she had the undeniable sense that she'd met this spirit before. She jumped up off the rock, stumbling forward as the truth slammed into her.

"Warden Stroud... Jean-Marc... where is he?"

"He is where I have shown you," the spirit assured her. "He is being cared for as we speak."

"But..." Trice looked to Solas, whose eyes were narrowed at the spirit, and then addressed the vague outline once more. "But you knew we were here? That we were looking for him?"

"You asked me to help him, to bring him to the other side of the Veil," the spirit said. "I have given him the best of all outcomes."

"Still, you could have allowed us to speak with him-"

"No," the spirit interrupted. "If he had spoken with you, he would have chosen death."

Flummoxed by the spirit's words, Trice swayed a little in place. She looked again to Solas, and he nodded to her.

"You believe you have set him on the best path, then?" Solas asked in his most serene voice.

"All other paths would have led to death within five years. This was the only path to life."

"You can see the possible paths into a person's future?" Solas pressed.

"I see the most likely paths," the spirit answered and then turned to Trice. "For your friend, I had to convince him that the rift I offered was his only choice."

Trice sucked in a little breath of understanding. "You lied to him."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because you asked me to help him. Leading him to death is not helping."

Trice blinked, too overwhelmed to argue with such simple logic. Solas continued his questioning.

"Where exactly is he? Where did the rift lead him?"

The spirit remained silent for a heartbeat before uttering a firm, "Nay. You will not use the knowledge for good."

Trice's brows furrowed at the spirit's words. It seemed to be calling Solas' character into question. The spirit, however, had not finished.

"Your path is not set. It can still be changed."

Confused at the seeming change in subject, Trice looked over at Solas. As his gaze slid to her, she felt her grasp on the Fade slipping. She mentally dug into the Fade as Solas turned his eyes back to the spirit.

"Who can change it?" he asked.

"A number of people, including the one you love. I will help them if I can, for your chosen path is naught but destruction, wolf."

Trice jerked her head from the spirit to Solas. Wide eyes met narrowed eyes just before the Fade was ripped from her, and she fell into darkness.


	24. The future is written in shades of risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rylen and Trice reunite, and Rylen and Cullen have a heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't often do this, but this song was winding through my head throughout the whole chapter.
> 
> "Hey now, the past is told by those who win.  
> My darling, what matters is what hasn't been."
> 
> -Futures, Jimmy Eat World

Like an eagle sighting its prey, Rylen fixed his eyes on the horizon. He leaned forward in his seat as if he could increase their pace by sheer force of will, but the caravan ground onward, the length of their steps seemingly inverse to the rise in temperature as morning wore into afternoon.

He could ride forward, of course - at the expense of his conscience. He couldn't justify leaving a group largely made up of injured soldiers to fend for themselves in a hostile desert. He sighed in defeat but kept his body pitched forward all the same.

By the time the top of the highest tower appeared in the distance, he was nearly dancing in his saddle. His patience - weak on a good day - had dwindled to nothing after the trials of the past week.

As horrific as the battle had been, the days following were worse. More than one soldier had broken into hysterics while digging through the remains of their dead comrades. If anything could cure a person of glorifying war, a day or two in the aftermath of Adamant would. These soldiers would take the gruesome sights and sounds of this battle - and any battle yet to come - to their graves.

Therefore, he focused all his energy on thinking of the good things waiting for him at Griffon Wing Keep. In particular, he fantasized about falling into bed with Trice Valera - and not just for the physical gratification she could offer. Void take him, he'd be just fine with holding her and being held in return. He wanted her comfort, her strength, her body... her heart.

Nothing like a near-death experience to solidify a man's priorities.

The keep bobbed in and out of sight for an hour or more, but each time the towers appeared bigger. Rylen had started the journey from Adamant in the back, but he led the group as they finally rose up from the former sulfur pit to the glorious vision of the full keep surrounded by a sea of golden sand. He took in every detail with hungry eyes, from the canvas awnings sweeping across the battlements and towers to the Inquisition banners fluttering in the hot breeze. Strange how the place had come to feel like a home when Haven, a place he'd spent twice as much time, never had.

"Quite a sight," Cullen murmured from Rylen's left.

Rylen turned to take in the pale and rather sickly visage of his commanding officer. The days after Adamant had been difficult for them all, but Cullen had pushed himself harder than most. The man certainly hadn't slept enough, working at all hours of the day and night and pitching in with even the most menial tasks. Rylen had only been partially successful in sending him back to his bedroll when he'd appear in the main tent looking ragged and exhausted hours before his scheduled shift.

They hadn't spoken of it since Haven, but Rylen knew the nightmares that plagued Cullen weren't simply withdrawal symptoms. The man had been through serious trauma. A battle such as Adamant could only make it worse.

"Aye. That it is. It can be a rotting stink hole when packed with too many soldiers, but hopefully when I rid myself of you all, it'll once more become a lovely oasis at the ass-end of Thedas."

Cullen chuckled. "We'll be glad to leave you to it, I assure you."

They smiled at one another before Rylen's eyes once again drifted to the keep, his mind following close behind with thoughts of the woman waiting for him within its walls. Maker, wasn't he a fool? He turned away from the sight of spiked battlement walls to focus on his commander's words.

"Before I leave, we should find a moment to speak," Cullen suggested.

"We should," Rylen affirmed. "I have a thing or two to discuss with you."

"And I with you."

"Most of them to do with the Inquisitor, no doubt," Rylen teased.

To his credit, Cullen didn't blush. He merely adjusted himself in his saddle and cleared his throat.

"Partially, yes. The rest are to do with _you_."

Rylen cocked his head and lifted a quizzical brow. "Me?"

"I haven't forgotten that odd incident in the courtyard at Adamant."

Cullen said nothing more. He didn't need to. Rylen's thoughts returned to that night almost a week prior when he'd lashed out at nothing and ended up hacking into a Venatori assassin. Just as Trice had warned him.

"It's, ehhh..." Rylen paused to gather his thoughts. "It's a bit of a long story."

"Then we'll have to ensure we have adequate refreshment to get us through. Something strong, perhaps?"

Cullen sent him a smirk, and Rylen couldn't help grinning in return. "I can arrange that."

"Good. Tonight or tomorrow night, then. I'll be leaving for Skyhold the day after tomorrow."

Rylen blinked. "So soon? Would it not be better to wait until the soldiers have had time to rest a bit." Cullen's side eye told Rylen he'd been less subtle than he'd hoped. Then again, subtlety had never been his strong suit. Rylen shrugged. "You look like you took on the entirety of Adamant with nothing but a sword and gumption. Perhaps a few days' rest wouldn't be amiss?"

Cullen shook his head even as he kept his eyes facing forward. "No time. I'll be fine."

Rylen knew enough of his friend's stubbornness to keep his mouth shut, no matter how much it rankled. If he pushed, the mule would dig in his heels, and Rylen would be left to deal with the Seeker's displeasure all on his own.

They made the rest of the journey to the keep in silence, which turned out to be a good thing. The closer he got, the more Trice filled his thoughts. He wondered if she would be waiting for him in the courtyard or if he'd have to go find her in the kitchen. He'd sent a note with their anticipated arrival time, but the tents already circling the exterior walls of the keep told him that she might not have the time to wait around for him. No matter, he'd find her.

The gates stood open, the area just outside the keep teeming with merchants hawking their wares to the returning soldiers. As they passed through the gate and into the courtyard, a wide grin split Rylen's lips.

He needn't have worried about finding her, for there she stood on the bottom step of the stairs leading into the keep, the living embodiment of all things good in his life. Thoughts of war and exhaustion and strife slipped away as he jumped off his horse and broke into a jog. He barely noticed pushing through the unfortunate soldiers standing in his way. His eyes never left hers, honing in on his objective.

Her eyes grew round with surprise and, if he weren't mistaken, glittered with a hefty portion of delight as she realized his intent. She stepped off the stairs and began moving toward him as well, but she didn't get far. In a final sprint of exuberance, he dashed toward her, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into a twirl as his lips crashed into hers. A laugh hummed in her throat, and she pressed her mouth to his grinning lips with equal zeal.

The world around them fell away at the give of her body under his hands, the plushness of her lips, the salt of her tongue. Her arms circled his neck, squeezing him almost painfully, igniting inside him a deep and abiding need to shake off the numbness of the past week and truly _feel_. Electricity arced between them, flashing through lips and hands and chests in an increasingly dangerous bond that threatened to consume him. His chest heaved with the power of his emotion, and he slowed their turning until her feet touched the ground once more.

All stillness at the edge of a teeming courtyard, he focused his attention on where his lips met hers, turning the passionate but sloppy greeting into something altogether different. Something that spoke of his need and his desire. Something that conveyed all the promises he couldn't make because he feared he could never keep them. And though he still held her tightly against his chest, he ached to bring her closer.

The crowd around them, however, had other ideas. Nearby soldiers let out a few whoops, and soon the whole courtyard joined in. He broke from her sweet lips, though he kept a hand around her waist and her body pulled tight against his side.

"What do you think this is?" he shouted into the crowd. "Your own personal peep show? You've got your orders, so get to it!"

The soldiers laughed at him, but thankfully, they also got back to their duties. Satisfied, he turned back to find Trice smiling up at him, laughter playing in her sparkling onyx eyes. His chest constricted, strangely tight and yet expansive all at once. He brought both hands up to frame her face.

"I've missed you, lass."

At this, her eyes misted over. "And I you. I was so worried for you."

He gave a sympathetic chuckle and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Well, well... If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd gone soft on me, Madame Valera."

She laughed and nuzzled her cheek into his right palm, but her murmured words belied the emotional response. "Oh, I have _several_ soft spots, ready and waiting. Just say the word, Captain."

He nearly choked as his simmering libido exploded to life. He looked around to make sure no one had overheard her. He wasn't embarrassed, but he did rather want to keep those words all to himself.

Dropping a hand from her cheek, he leaned in, pressed his scruffy cheek to hers, and whispered in her ear. After all, two could play this game.

"Oh, I have plans for you, darling. I'm going to strip you of all that unnecessary clothing, put my head between those beautiful thighs, and make you scream my name." He actually felt the rush of heat to her cheek, and a breathy whimper chimed like music in his ear, egging him on. "I'll kiss those thighs until they quiver with anticipation. Until I can feel the heat of you. Then, I'll put my tongue to your flesh and pleasure you with long, slow strokes. I'll wrap my lips around that center where you ache even now and-"

"Captain! The Commander wants all the senior officers gathered as soon as may be."

Rylen closed his eyes, struggling to keep his ire in check while simultaneously willing the swelling in his trousers to subside. He should have known better than to start something in the middle of a courtyard. He turned his head enough to avoid speaking in Trice's ear but not enough to look the clueless scout in the eye.

"Seeing as how I just traveled several hours overland with the man, a logical person might conclude that I'm already privy to the Commander's wishes. Wouldn't you say so?"

Rylen heard a bit of spluttering before the scout finally responded. "I... I suppose... yes, that makes sense, ser."

"And a logical person might also conclude that a man with his arms around a beautiful woman he hasn't seen in several days might not wish to be interrupted."

"Well, yes, I can see-"

" _Dismissed_."

The scout cleared his throat at Rylen's growled dismissal, and Rylen watched out of the corner of his eye as the man backed away. "Ah, y-yes, of course, Captain."

Rylen pulled his head back far enough to look down at Trice. Her eyes, still steeped in lust, held a note of wry mirth as well.

"Well, at least I have something to look forward to," she said in a low voice.

"Count on it."

He held her gaze, losing himself in the moment, but all too soon, her expression turned serious. "I have much to tell you, Rylen. It's nothing terribly urgent, but it's important for you to know."

"About your nightmares?"

She nodded. "Among other things."

He swallowed. "Stroud? Solas was able to help you? After the first letter, you didn't mention him by name, but I read between the lines."

"Yes, Mallory thought it best to not mention Jean-Marc anymore."

"But he's safe?"

She hesitated and looked around her. "As far as I know, yes."

His brow wrinkled in confusion. "What-?"

She pressed a finger to his lips, glancing around her again. "We should talk more later. In private. I've relayed my concerns to Mallory, but... it's too vague to raise an alarm. It could be nothing... or at least nothing that concerns the Inquisition..."

She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the side. He tried and failed to extract the worry from his voice as he smoothed his thumb over her jaw.

"You're alright, though?"

She turned back to him and smiled. "I'm alright. Better than I've been in a long time, actually. I've caught up on a lot of missed sleep this week."

A wry chuckle slipped between his lips. "That makes one of us, then."

The endearing divot between her brows made an appearance as she frowned up at him. He forestalled her words of concern by pressing a quick kiss to that sacred place.

"I promise to get more sleep from here on out," he assured her. "I'd offer to find a secluded place to trade war stories now, but as was pointed out, I'm to be at a meeting shortly."

"No matter." She pulled away with a sigh. "We can talk later. I should get back to the kitchen. And you shouldn't be late to your date with the Commander."

"Aye. He's a demanding lover, that one. I'll find you later?"

She bobbed a playful curtsey. "Your other lover will impatiently await you." She made to turn away but then paused and came back to place a cool hand on his rough cheek. "I'm so happy you've come back to me safe and sound."

She rose up on her toes and pressed a brief kiss to cheek. When she pulled back, he covered her hand with his and turned his face to press a kiss to her palm.

"All thanks to you, love." He swallowed as he stepped close. "You saved my life."

She ducked her head and nodded, but not before he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Then, she turned and was immediately swallowed up in the crowd of soldiers.

Rylen closed his eyes for a moment before exhaling heavily. Maker preserve him, but he'd make back it to her side tonight even if it killed him.

 

**

 

It very nearly killed him.

The meeting ended with spontaneous blood pouring from Cullen's nose and Rylen doling out final orders before going in search of his superior. The stubborn man did agree to rest, however, so Rylen took it as a win even if the encounter left him more frustrated than an ambitious Chantry Mother stuck in a backwater town... and a little bit frightened about the ultimate fate of his friend.

With the Commander out of commission, Rylen had to handle all the inquiries and correspondence for not only the keep itself, but also the ongoing efforts with the Grey Wardens, the organization of the troops heading back to Skyhold on the day after tomorrow and the arrangements for those too weak to travel. The lieutenant that Cullen had left in charge of the keep had tended to most of the day-to-day issues, but even so, it was late by the time he walked down the steps to the lower levels.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs and gently laid a hand on Trice's door. He tapped softly, but the stillness within convinced him to drop his hand and move on. He didn't want to wake the children.

With a resigned sigh, he continued down the corridor and unlocked the door to his quarters. Lighting a candle on his bedside table, he began pulling off his armor. The pieces clattered on the stone floor as they dropped, leather and chainmail and heavy cloth piling up in a heap of grime and sweat. He smelled riper than dragon carcass boiling in the desert heat. Good thing he'd ordered a bath - his first one since the battle.

He bathed quickly but thoroughly, scrubbing every cranny and crevice that could harbor blood, grime, icor or any other unsavory thing. He moaned as he scraped soapy fingers across his scalp, the feeling of cleanliness an increasingly rare luxury. A cool night breeze blew in through the sliver of window high on the back wall, and he reveled in the goosebumps that spread over his flesh. Drying himself and putting on a pair of linen sleeping pants, he flopped onto his back in the blessedly clean bed.

And stared up at the ceiling, cursing his luck.

He had no idea how long he laid there, the candle beside him flickering in the night breeze, but a soft scratching at his door had him bounding out of bed and throwing the door open before his brain had caught up with his actions. _Please, Maker, let it be..._

For once, the Maker answered his prayer. Trice stood in the hallway, her loose black hair sliding like silk around her shoulders. She wore a modest night dress and shawl, but Rylen thought he'd never seen anything so sexy. Her hand, still raised as if knocking, slowly lowered to grasp at the edge of the shawl and pull it closer around her.

"May I come in?" she whispered.

"Yes!" Rylen burst out, jumping out of her way as he realized he'd been gaping at her like an idiot. "Of course. I was just lying in bed thinking of you."

Her lips turned upward in a coy smile as she passed into his room. He closed the door behind her, and before she could move too far away, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her back against his chest, and buried his face in her hair.

"Maker, you smell like heaven," he mumbled into the silken strands.

She laughed. "From the soapy scent, I gather you managed a bath as well."

"Aye. Couldn't have you turning your nose up at me, could I?"

"As if I would."

"You did the day we first met," he argued.

"Not really," she denied before lowering her voice to admit, "I spent many a night in Val Royeaux thinking unladylike thoughts about you."

He couldn't quite contain a jolt of surprise and gratification. "Is that so? Only _thinking_?"

Instead of answering, she tried to turn in his arms, but he kept his arm firmly around her waist while his free hand began a slow exploration. He started by pulling her hair back and placing his lips to the shell of her ear.

"You won't have to do any thinking tonight, love. If you recall, I have plans for you."

"I have my own plans, you rogue," she shot back.

"Oooh, do tell, lass. I'm all aflutter."

"Ass."

He could hear the laughter in her tone, so he swept his hand around to her shoulder and slowly trailed his fingers down her arm. He kept the touch light, and she shivered.

In truth, his skin fairly burned with anticipation. He planned to take his time worshipping every inch of her, but he delighted in the possibility that she had a thing or two planned for him as well.

"You first? Or me?" he asked, his voice rough with building desire.

"You go first," she sighed as his hand made a trip up her side and then back down, pulling the shawl away in the process. "It's only fair after you teased me so abominably this afternoon."

"Sweetheart, that wasn't teasing. You haven't seen teasing yet."

To prove his point, he stroked up and down her side a few more times. The rasp of fingers on fabric mixed with their elevated breathing to create an erotic soundtrack all their own. His fingers danced at the swell of her breast, his callouses catching on the fabric just enough to create the barest friction over her sensitive flesh.

She whimpered and circled her hips in a restless motion. He hissed softly at the delicious pressure and moved his hand down to push low on her stomach, encouraging the motion.

"Maker... that's just right, love," he breathed.

She kept up the motion as he began circling his palm over her pelvis. With each pass, he dipped just enough to give the impression he might go lower. Each time, his palm descended a fraction more - so low he could feel the edge of feminine curls under the thin fabric. The back of her head thumped against his shoulder in apparent frustration when he slid his hand away to massage her hip.

"You really are an ass."

"I dunno, lass. I feel like I'm doing a pretty good job at getting you riled up." He placed his lips directly against her ear, slid his hand downward and whispered, "Shall I find out?"

As his fingers skimmed down the thin linen to ghost between her legs, a noise halfway between whimper and agreement burst from her lips. He smiled against her hair, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and then loosened his hold on her waist in order to turn her around in his arms. He briefly lamented the loss of friction from her backside.

But then she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with desire and a hint of something more. A beckoning. A silent entreaty.

The answering call clamored within him, two halves of a whole voice, but he kept it contained. He was a fool... but not enough of one to speak it aloud just yet.

Instead, he began walking her backward as his lips descended to her face. He pressed kisses to her temple, her brow, her cheek. He dragged his lips and teeth along her jaw and down the column of her neck until she gasped.

When the backs of her knees touched the mattress, Rylen pushed lightly until she sat down. Falling to his knees before her, he smirked as she bit her lip and fisted her hands into his bed linens. Reaching out to cup the back of her ankle, he winked at her.

"I'm a man of my word."

"I know," she returned in a husky voice.

"Do you know how many times I've fantasized about this, lass?"

"How-"

She cut off as he began stroking her calf, then cleared her throat and swallowed hard. He watched in fascination as the muscles of her delectable throat contracted with the compulsive action.  

"How many times?" she managed to say.

"Let's just say you weren't the only one captivated by a chance meeting on the docks."

She gave a throaty laugh. "Yes, but aren't men always thinking of sex?"

Rylen snorted and began caressing both legs as he kneeled at her feet. "You have me there, love. But I could name quite a few women of my acquaintance I've never fantasized about. You however..." He raised one leg to kiss the inside of her ankle, though his eyes continued to hold hers. "You're never far from my thoughts - dirty or otherwise."

Her chuckle turned into a slight gasp as he leaned forward to nip at the soft flesh of her inner knee. Pressing a kiss to the skin there, he placed his palm against the inside of her opposite knee and slowly guided her legs wider. Only the sound of uneven breathing and his lips rasping over soft skin broke through the cocoon of stillness enveloping them. Her gown rode higher, revealing an expanse of ochre skin just begging to be kissed.

He smoothed his hands over her knees and then began sliding them over the tops of her thighs. As he pushed at the fabric, he laved tongue and lips over every newly exposed portion of flesh. He focused on the needy sounds she made, the restless way her hips moved to the edge of the bed, how she leaned back on her hands and threw her head back, and the incremental opening of her legs - wider and wider - without his prompting.

His fingertips slipped under the gown to reach the juncture of thigh and pelvis. Although he'd pushed the fabric high on her thighs, it hung low enough to hinder his view. The feel of her naked skin, however, told him she'd once again foregone underclothes. Inordinately pleased by the discovery, he nipped at her inner thigh and grinned up at her.

She watched him, lips parted, chest heaving, eyes heavy with desire. She reached forward to slide her fingers into his hair, but she didn't guide him. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head as she scratched her fingernails over his scalp. His hair, still damp from his bath, caught on her fingers, and the added pull sent a throb of desire straight to his swelling cock.

Teasing worked both ways, apparently.

Rylen hummed against her, sucking on the thin skin just inches from where they both wanted him. The tip of his nose brushed against linen, and he ducked down further to drag his bottom lip over skin mere inches from her heated center. He inhaled, drowning in the heady spice of her arousal.

The few times they'd been together before the battle had been hurried affairs. He'd yet to see her properly, and his palms grew sweaty with anticipation. Apparently, Trice wasn't far behind. Her legs opened wider, and she let out a breathy moan when his fingers moved from the tops of her thighs to skim over her outer thighs. In the process, he pulled at the edge of the gown, and the drooping linen ghosted over her core as it rose higher, making her moan on its way to stretching taut over her pelvis.

His mouth went dry at the sight of her, wet and open for him.

"Maker but that's a beautiful sight," he murmured.

"Rylen, please," she pleaded in return.

"Yes, love?" he asked as he laved his tongue over the expanse of thigh at the juncture of her legs. "What do you want of me?"

At the drag of his tongue, she let her head fall forward and half moaned, half growled. When he bent down to nip at that skin, his cheek brushed like a butterfly's wing over her core. Her eyes narrowed even as hunger flashed in their depths.

"You know what I want."

"Aye, lass," he finally acknowledged between sucks and nibbles of tender thigh. "I do. But it wouldn't be teasing if I just gave it to you, would it?"

"Put your mouth on me. Now."

Lust rocketed through him at the commanding tone in her voice. He loved a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to demand it.

Instead of following her order, however, Rylen tucked the gown high on her hips and then skimmed his fingers around to graze down either side of her center, his fingers just teasing the edges of her intimate curls. The slow, torturous glide ended with a swirl of fingers in the space just below her entrance. She gasped, and he watched in fascination as her muscles contracted with the intensity of the pleasure surging through her.

Such power was a heady drug. He repeated the motion - up, edging around her swollen folds and back down - and her muscles clenched again, her growing want glistening in the candlelight. The fingers in his hair curled into a fist and tugged.

"Maker dammit, Rylen!" she hissed.

"Patience, your highness."

However, even as he said the words, he leaned forward. At the same time, his fingers circled inward, his fingertips grazing over her outer folds. She gasped and then whined pitifully. The fingers in his hair tightened, and he heard her inhale deeply... and hold her breath. When his lips drifted across her dripping core, slow and light, she exhaled with a moan.

"Yes! Oh, yes."

He pulled away mere inches, and deliberately catching her eye, he licked his lips. Only sheer force of will prevented him from losing himself in the taste of her. His fingers moved ever inward, but he was losing patience himself. Leaning in again, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, stroking her outer folds with long, slow licks. His own need pressed painfully against his linen pants, and he reached down to palm his length.

Heavy breathing now filled the air. Hers. His own. He no longer cared. Her thighs trembled around his head, but he barely noticed. Languid glides of tongue on swollen flesh turned impassioned. His eyes met hers as he licked up her seam with the flat of his tongue. His cock jumped under his palm at the resulting ragged cry.

And when he wrapped his lips around the swollen bud at the very top, her jaw went slack. She rocked her hips into his face, and he reveled in it even as his pants grew damp from his want of her.

Done with any semblance of teasing, Rylen set to her with relish. His tongue stroked and delved and flicked and circled her core in a bid to please but also to learn. He listened carefully to every sound, repeating motions that seemed to please her most. He picked up the pace gradually, occasionally coming back to lick and suck on that bundle of nerves that caused her belly to clench with pleasure.

Her hips began an illicit undulation, and he followed her rhythm, timing the strokes of his tongue. Soon, every exhalation contained a breathy moan, and she pulled on his hair, arching her back and spreading her legs wide as she ground her clit against his mouth.

"Yesyesyesyes!"

Breathing stopped for one second... two... and then she cried out his name as her muscles began to pulsate under his swirling tongue. He worked her through her climax, gentling his ministrations until she shoved his head away and clamped her legs together.

"Sorry. That's... that's good," she panted. "It's too... too sensitive."

He gently pulled away, allowing her a moment while he wiped his face. His knees protested the movement, and he bit back a groan of pain as he pulled himself onto the bed. From there, he slowly stood up and surveyed the damage.

She'd collapsed backward on the bed, face flushed and sweating, chest heaving and arms flung to the sides. Her gown had slipped down, once again covering her from his view, but even if she were too spent to continue their activities, he had no intention of sleeping with that between them, no matter how thin. He leaned over her and rested his hands on either side of her.

"Still alive, your highness?"

"Mmmphf."

Grinning, he pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "I have a mighty need to see you in your full, naked glory, love. Any objections?"

She shook her head and made as if to push her boneless body into a sitting position. He straightened up and helped her stand. Together, they slid the gown over her head, and she immediately slumped against him. He wrapped his arms around her in return.

"Come, love. To bed with ye." The he paused, suddenly unsure. "Unless you can't stay?"

"Hmmm," she mumbled into his chest.

"Didn't quite catch that," he said with a barely contained laugh. "Care to make another attempt?"

She hummed out an answering laugh as she snuggled deeper into his embrace. "I can stay. The children are with Katlin tonight. I told you I'd be waiting."

"And I stopped by and tapped on your door. I didn't realize the children weren't there, or I would've knocked louder."

Her face scrunched up with displeasure. "I didn't mean to, but I fell asleep."

"That's alright," he said as he leaned over, blew out the candle and tumbled into bed, pulling her along with him. "We're here together now."

The bed groaned a little under the impact but remained intact. After a few moments of simply lying entwined, Trice's muffled voice reached his ears.

"I had plans, dammit. You ruined them. You've ruined _me_."

Rylen chuckled. "I'll not apologize for it."

"Cheeky man," she muttered. In the darkness, he felt her try to move and then give up. "But what about you? We could... I'm not in any shape to do what I'd planned, but we could still..."

The darkness, the bed, and his own exhaustion had already translated into heavy lids and limbs, but as her hand moved down his chest and slid over the band of his pants, his half-hard cock took notice. When her fingers skated down his manhood to cup his balls, he let out a grunt of satisfaction.

"I don't think I'd mind that," he managed to say through suddenly elevated breathing.

At his words, the woman began doing things with her hand that were nothing short of miraculous. She stroked, massaged and squeezed in all the right places. When she finally untied his pants and slipped her hand inside, the skin-to-skin contact nearly made him come then and there. She slid her thumb over his leaking tip, and his hips came up off the mattress. He turned his head, lips seeking hers, and devoured her mouth with vigor even as she used his slickness to pump her hand along his length.

She set a quick rhythm, sensing he was already close. With precise flicks of her wrist, she twisted her hands and increased and decreased pressure to hit all the right spots with each stroke. He broke the kiss as the tension coiled at the base of his spine.

"Aye... oh, aye, lass," he gasped, sucking in breath after desperate, ragged breath. "That's the way."

She focused her movements on the head, using just the right pressure on the bundle of nerves below his crown before sweeping up over the top. White light throbbed in the corners of his vision. She then pumped his full length before repeating the movements. As her hand came up to stroke his tip once more, he felt his balls tighten in warning.

Suddenly, her lips and teeth were at his neck, sucking and nipping. The added stimulation ended him. He moaned long and low, his stomach muscles contracting enough to pull his head off the pillow. The intense pressure at his spine released in waves of pleasure as his cock pulsed under her grip and spilled come over his stomach and chest.

His head hit the pillow again as the pleasure subsided, and he exhaled a pleased breath. She carefully released him and sat up. He tried to as well, but his body protested. The intense build-up and release after days without any kind of stimulation left him weak as a newborn kitten.

"I think I know how you feel now," he mumbled.

She gave a low laugh as she reached for his pants. "Lift your hips, darling."

A different kind of pleasure surged through him at her endearment, and he did as she requested. With practiced ease, she stripped him of his pants, cleaned them both and lay back down within a matter of minutes. He circled his arms around her, pulling her to his chest.

"Thank you, love."

"What, for that? That was nothing. What you did, though... with your mouth..." She hummed into his neck and then kissed it. "Now that was worth a thousand thanks and a solemn promise to repay the kindness tomorrow."

He chuckled. "It's not nothing to me. I love the feel of your hand on my cock."

"You'll like the feel of my mouth better, I promise you."

Her words caressed his ear with their husky promise, and he shivered. Maker, what had he done to deserve this woman?

"For now, let's sleep," she murmured.

He hummed his acquiescence, the stillness of the room and her nearness soothing something crumpled and worn out in his soul. Even the subtle craving for his now nightly dose of lyrium couldn't tear him away from her. The flicker of feeling he'd been missing all week lit up his chest, burning in spite of the blue in his blood that wanted to snuff it out.

"What about your nightmares?" he asked, suddenly remembering her words from the courtyard. "You wrote they'd gone away?"

"Mmmm, yes," she mumbled. "No more nightmares. We can talk more tomorrow?"

He smiled, his arms tightening around her sleepy form. "Aye, love. Tomorrow."

 

**

 

Rylen's morning had begun in the most pleasant way possible - with a woman's mouth wrapped around his cock. But not just any woman.

_Trice._

And he'd realized she'd been right after all. As good as her hands had been, her mouth felt even better. Maker, the things she could do with that tongue...

Their morning activities, however, had left little time for talking. Again. Rylen grimaced at the paperwork on his desk as he tried to work out when they might find time to actually talk. They had too much to discuss to let it languish for long. Some of it seemed to be Inquisition business, and he wondered if he couldn't get away with summoning her to his office during a lull tomorrow. If he wanted to do that, he'd have to get through more of the correspondence and requests on his desk.

The fading light made it impossible to turn back to reading, though, and instead of lighting a candle, he leaned back in his chair and raised a hand to massage his stiff neck. He wished he could as easily massage away the cravings burning in his veins and clawing at his skin. He passed the other hand over his face and took a moment to review the day.

Cullen had returned to the land of the living that morning, and they'd worked through the logistics of moving soldiers back to their posts in various locations. They'd reassigned the remaining lieutenants to regions, and in turn, the lieutenants would repopulate the skeleton camps with the units under their command. Severely wounded soldiers would be left to recover at the keep, while those with minor injuries would move out with their respective units. Rylen and Cullen both agreed to leave reorganization within the units to the individual lieutenants and their corporals.

In the afternoon, Cullen had come back from a bite to eat and a visit to the healer tents looking more refreshed than Rylen had seen him since the beginning of the whole ordeal. He silently thanked the Maker that the other man's withdrawal had ebbed, both for Cullen's sake and his own. As they worked through final details and discussed future plans, he added that to his list of questions: Could mage healers assist with the symptoms that plagued him even now?

He and Cullen had separated for dinner to go through their individual correspondence. Instead of going straight to work, however, Rylen had pulled Trice from a busy kitchen and into the store room to kiss her silly. No time for more than that, but just touching her, just tasting her welcoming mouth, had revived him for an hour or two of paperwork.

"Rylen? Are you there?"

Cullen's voice called out from the doorway, and Rylen jerked back to the present with a groan. "Yes, though I'm a bit worse for wear tonight."

"You and me both. Any reason in particular - besides the obvious, of course?" Cullen asked as he entered the darkened room.

Rylen grunted and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. "It's nothing a glass or four can't fix."

Even through the dusky evening light, Rylen could see the disbelieving look on Cullen's face. Rylen exhaled through his nose and bit his tongue... for now.

"Here?" he asked instead.

Cullen looked around and then shook his head. "Your quarters or the Inquisitor's. Take your pick."

"Mine. You're shipping out tomorrow morning, so you can't plough yourself under. Whereas I don't plan to be sober by the end of this."

"That bad?"

"Yes... and no. Some of it's good. Very good... as I imagine is the case with you."

Cullen merely snorted in answer and silently followed Rylen down the stairs. Rylen opened the door for his friend, thankful that the staff had tidied his room during the day. Rylen lit the lamp on his desk and then pulled a table and two chairs from the corner into the warm glow of light. He placed the bottle of aged whiskey on the table and sat down, motioning for Cullen to do the same.

While Cullen situated himself, Rylen poured them both a drink. He held it up between them, and Cullen quickly lifted his glass as well.

"To our respective women," Rylen said, "both of them far better than we deserve."

"Here, here," Cullen said enthusiastically with a lift of his glass.

They took long pulls, and Cullen hummed his appreciation as he stared into the smoky, amber liquid. The smell of caramelized sugar and vanilla filled the air. However, a moment later, he set down his glass and turned his eyes to Rylen.

"Speaking of women, I suppose you've figured out that Evana and I are together."

"It's rather hard to miss," Rylen said through a laugh, "what with you sleeping in the same tent and all. I'm happy for you."

Cullen's cheeks pinked, but his gaze never wavered. "Thank you. And you? Your toast referred to the woman from the courtyard I assume? Or is she just another fling?"

Rylen gritted his teeth, his tone more vehement than he'd intended. "She's not _just_ a _fling._ "

Cullen's head reared back in surprise before he leaned forward, a slow smirk replacing his frown. _Self-satisfied prick._

"Oh, really? What then? Don't tell me after years of careful avoidance you've finally let yourself get caught up. Who is she?"

"She's the cook," Rylen mumbled. "Trice."

Cullen blinked. "Wait... Chef Valera? The one you wrote to Leliana about? The one you begged to be rid of?"

Rylen wiped a hand down his face. Of course, Leliana had shown him the letter. _Of course._ He cleared his throat and took another pull of whiskey, letting it burn all the way down before answering.

"We didn't always get on so well as we do now. I think..." He paused, swallowing hard. "I think I knew from the start what a danger she'd be to me."

Cullen's face turned vaguely sympathetic, though he still wore his infuriating smirk. "You don't like that she has a hold on you."

Rylen's face contorted into a grimace, and he dropped his eyes to his whiskey glass. He tilted the cup and watched the liquid slosh up the sides.

"It's not that so much as..." With a quick jerk, he tipped back the glass and swallowed down the remainder of his whiskey. "I don't have anything to offer the lass. At least you..." Rylen looked up at Cullen now, searching the other man's tired face. "At least you won't go off half-cocked one of these days to chase imaginary mages, mowing down every innocent in your path. I've seen it. So have you, I'd wager."

All at once, Cullen's body went rigid, his lips forming a thin line of displeasure. "Lyrium madness. You're talking about... Maker... are you...?"

Rylen shook his head. "Not yet. But it's coming. I'm 35 years old, Cullen. I know my fate."

Cullen looked away for the first time since they'd sat down, and Rylen could hear him inhale and exhale deeply through his nose. The commander looked back, his gaze piercing.

"It doesn't have to be that way, Rylen."

"Doesn't it?" Rylen responded bitterly. "I'm almost five years older than you. Even if I quit now, there's no guarantee..."

"Of course, not," Cullen responded, "but you started later than your counterparts. At most, you've got three years on me. And I know you haven't increased your rations."

Rylen burst out of his chair and began pacing, his blood already pounding in his ears for _more_. "I have! I had to! I wouldn'ta made it through Adamant without it. I don't know how you..."

He stopped and put both hands on the back of his chair, looking into Cullen's shocked face. The look calmed Rylen's frenzy into despair. Leaning into the furniture for support, he let his head drop.

"I'm only a day into reducing my ration back to normal, and I'm a _fucking mess_. Look at me, Cullen. Is this me? Do you even recognize what I've become? Because I don't."

A soft hiss of sympathy from Cullen nearly sent Rylen to his knees. Somehow, he managed to hold himself upright as the other man spoke quietly.

"Maybe... maybe this _is_ you, Rylen. Maybe it's the lyrium that makes you into something... some _one_ you're not."

Rylen laughed bitterly at the floor. "When did you get so fucking smart?"

Cullen huffed out a laugh. "I'm not. I just... I know what I went through. Enhanced emotions... or... maybe simply learning to deal with _regular_ emotions... it wrapped me up in knots, too."

"How did ye manage? I feel as battered about as one of Seeker Pentaghast's practice dummies."

"I didn't at first. At least, not well. You'll remember a certain episode on the training grounds at Haven, I think?"

This time, Rylen barked out a genuine though short-lived laugh. "The evening you very nearly castrated me for touching your woman?"

"She wasn't mine then. Not even close. And yet I... the only way to explain it is that I lost my head. That hadn't happened to me since..."

Cullen paused, and Rylen lifted his head enough to see the other man swallow harshly as he stared at the hands tightly clasped on the table in front of him. Just as Rylen was about to speak, to assure the younger man that he needn't say anything, Cullen's voice cut through the stillness.

"Not since I nearly went mad at Kinloch."

In the years they'd been friends, Cullen had never mentioned Kinloch. Not once. Rylen knew the stories - every templar did - and he knew Cullen had survived the disaster along with the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter and a few others. But other than that, Rylen only knew that, even ten years later, the horrors of that experience could make his friend scream bloody murder in his sleep.

"Cullen, lad... you don't have to-"

"I know," he said quickly, lifting his gaze to Rylen's. "I'm not... I don't want to get into... specifics. But by the time they found me, I had been in withdrawal for days. I'd been..." He licked his lips, his breath coming in shorter gasps as his eyes flitted once more to his clenched hands. "I'd been physically and mentally tortured by demons for days. I had no idea I'd been compromised until much later. I thought all my decisions were perfectly rational. But even without the... other things... the lyrium withdrawal alone would have made me untrustworthy."

_Holy fucking Void._

Rylen swung himself over the chair and plopped down, suddenly quite over himself and his comparatively minor problems. Cullen took a deep breath and lifted surprisingly calm eyes as he continued in a quiet voice.

"I allowed Cassandra to help me through the early stages. And Evana helped me learn to be more patient with myself... and if I've made it this far..." He frowned and growled a little. "What I'm trying to say is that _you can do this_ , Rylen. Especially with people you trust by your side. Your stubbornness and tenacity will see you through the rest."

Rylen simply stared at his friend for a moment before reaching for the bottle to pour another finger of whiskey in his glass. He downed the whole thing in one go.

Cullen thought he could do it. Maker's balls... Cullen was _encouraging_ him to do it.

"Fuck."

Rylen's palms began to sweat, and his heart rate kicked up a notch. Cullen's low voice, however, cut through the haze of panic building at the corners of Rylen's mind.

"You want to offer something to Trice? How about a life free from the chains that bind you to the Inquisition or to the Chantry? How about being free to go wherever you please, whenever you please without worrying about where your next ration might come from? It's worth it, Rylen. I promise you."

After a long pause, Rylen still couldn't think properly. The panic ebbed and flowed with the surges of pain growing stronger as the evening wore on. A part of him desperately wanted the freedom Cullen promised. But another part of him feared it like nothing else. He experienced withdrawal in small doses now, but something told him his experience with quitting would be different from Cullen's. Harder. More likely to end in his death.

_Madness or an early death. Take your pick._

"Fucking fuck."

He poured and downed yet another finger, and finally... _finally_ , the liquor began to warm his body. His tense muscles relaxed, and Maker be praised, his mind sharpened as it usually did.

"What about my work here? What if... what if I can't keep up?"

Cullen shrugged. "We'll get you more support. More lieutenants. When Rozellene takes over as captain of the Fereldan regions, I'll have more time to work on those matters as well." His eyes caught Rylen's. "We'd _make_ it work if it's what you want."

Rylen poured another, larger portion in his glass but didn't drink it. Cullen had only drank half his first glass, and Rylen had more he needed to say - more he needed to know - before he let himself get drunk. He opened his mouth to ask the next question when a soft knock interrupted him.

Rylen stood from the table, his body humming pleasantly as he walked to the door and opened it. Trice stood on the other side, and all thoughts of lyrium slipped from his brain. Rylen gave her a wide smile.

"Hello," she began, "I just thought-"

Rylen pulled her to him and kissed her before she could finish, his mouth moving over hers hungrily. She responded with vigor as she always did, her arms twining about his neck, but after a moment, he felt her humming out a laugh into his mouth. He pulled back, his brows furrowing in displeasure. Her hum turned into a low, amused laugh, her eyes dancing with mirth.

"You, my dearest Captain, are _drunk_!"

"He's not," came Cullen's voice from inside the room. "Not really. You'd know if he were really drunk. It's a sight."

Rylen turned his torso to scowl and point at Cullen. "You, be quiet."

At Trice's laugh, Rylen turned back to find her attempting to see around his shoulder. His scowl deepened as she smiled prettily for the commander of the Inquisition.

"My apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all," Cullen replied and then raised his glass, which Rylen noticed was now nearly empty. "I'm Cullen."

Rylen reluctantly moved back to give Trice more room. She smiled up and him and then answered Cullen.

"Oh, I'm aware of who you are, Commander. I'm Trice Valera in case this oaf hasn't mentioned me."

"A pleasure to meet you, Trice. You're welcome to join us for a drink if you like."

"Oh, no," she demurred. "I won't intrude on you gentlemen's time together, especially when that time is so short." She turned back to Rylen, her fingers sliding down to grip his arms as she smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

She raised up on her toes, and he met her halfway with eager lips. He dove into her, his tongue stroking hers, but she pulled away before he could get too lost in the kiss. She pressed a palm to his cheek, laughter still dancing in her eyes, and then turned back to Cullen.

"Goodnight, Commander, and my best wishes for a safe and swift journey."

Trice gave Rylen a final pat on the cheek and walked away. Rylen leaned back against the doorframe and watched her go, admiring the gentle sway of her hips. Unfortunately, Cullen's voice soured the view.

"She seems quite lovely."

He turned back to his friend as Trice disappeared into her room at the other end of the hall and pointed his finger again. "You have your own woman. Keep your charming Fereldan accent away from mine."

Cullen snorted, his face turning a little pink. "You're jealous that she gave me a few kind words when she was kissing you like... like _that_?"

Rylen grunted, knowing he was behaving like an idiot, and took one last look into the empty corridor before closing the door. When he sat back down across from his commander and friend, he took one look at Cullen's smirking - if slightly red - face and broke into a joyous grin.

"Maker's breath," Cullen laughed, "you're as far gone as me. But have you admitted it, yet?"

Rylen curled his lip. "Admitted what?"

"That's a no, then. Ah, well. At this rate, you'll get there soon enough."

"Oh, I assure you, we've already _gotten there_."

Cullen snorted again, his face flushing crimson as he continued to snigger like a 15-year-old recruit at Rylen's innuendo. "Well... good for you, then."

Rylen held up his glass. "Thank you. It was. It _is_."

Cullen tipped his glass at Rylen in return before swallowing down the last drops and finally pouring himself a second. Rylen felt the tension in his chest loosen at the signal that Cullen planned to stay a while longer. He had too many questions to end the night now.

"In all seriousness... I do care for her... deeply," Rylen conceded. "More than I've ever cared for anyone."

Cullen eyed him over the rim of his glass before taking a sip and placing the glass on the table. "All the more reason to make sure you can be with her when all this ends."

"If it ends," Rylen muttered. "And any of us are still alive by that point."

Cullen sighed. "Yes... well, that's a risk, of course. At least you don't have to worry about-"

Cullen cut himself off and shook his head as if in apology. Rylen's gaze narrowed as he worked through what his commander had almost said. It came to him in a flash of understanding.

"I grant you it's not the same thing," Rylen said slowly. "The Inquisitor is in near constant danger, but you'd be surprised how often I've feared for that blasted woman's safety. Danger follows her like a dog in heat."

Cullen chuckled. "I've missed your colorful language."

Rylen raised his glass in acknowledgment and took a sip. "What about you? Any 'getting there' to speak of?"

Cullen's face flushed red yet again, and he laughed nervously. "Ah... ha... no, not officially as of yet. I...uhh... I do have _plans_..."

Rylen burst into laughter. "You have _plans_? Andraste's hairy ass cheeks, Cullen, this isn't a campaign! You don't have to plan every move. Just go with what feels right."

Cullen scowled. "That works for you, yes, the man with more conquests than most. For some of us it's... been a while."

Rylen sobered as he recalled Cullen's earlier confession. "Did... is it difficult for you?"

Cullen shrugged, his face still flushed with embarrassment. "Not... not really. I just... it was always easier not to. I didn't have to worry about whether the woman really liked me, or if I might accidently father a child." He cleared his throat at this but kept going. "And I was... angry for a long time. It seemed like a bad idea to throw another person into that."

"But it's not like that with the Inquisitor?"

A rather dopey smile spread over Cullen's face. "No," he said in a soft voice, "it's not. I want..."

Cullen, clearly beginning to feel the effects of the liquor, cut off and sat up from where he'd slumped over the table. Rylen snorted.

"I'm pretty sure I can guess what you want. So next time you two are together, don't overthink it, man. Just go at it."

Cullen sniggered again. "Ha, yes. Perhaps I'll... uh... give that a try."

"Not at first, you won't. I know you. But later... later, you definitely _will_."

They both sipped at their drinks for a moment, and Cullen's face gradually returned to a normal shade of pale. The commander set down his half-empty glass, leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. His gaze caught Rylen's and held it as he moved the conversation to a more serious topic.

"Now we've gotten all that out of the way... You never told me what really happened in the courtyard at Adamant."

Rylen blinked, the topic somehow expected and yet not anticipated. He didn't speak, so Cullen filled the silence.

"You said 'she' warned you. Did you mean Trice?"

Taking a deep breath, Rylen nodded. "She gets these... premonitions. She dreamed I would die by a knife wound from a Venatori assassin. Made me promise not to turn my back on the rift. That's how I anticipated it. I realized I'd broken my promise, so I just reacted."

"And happened to hit a Venatori assassin getting ready to stab you."

Cullen's voice held a note of the awe Rylen still felt when he thought about the incident. Most of that day lived in his consciousness as a messy blur of random events. But that single moment... that would be engraved in his memory until the day he died.

"That's quite a useful skill," Cullen said carefully.

"Seeker Pentaghast knows a little about it. And Mallory knows, so I imagine our spymaster is aware of the situation. Trice isn't a danger to anyone."

Cullen frowned. "But... she _is_ a mage?"

"Of a sort. She can't do regular spells. She can't even control the dreams and visions that come to her. Unless Solas has helped her in that regard."

"Solas?"

"Cassandra suggested I send Solas to assist with..." Rylen trailed off. "There's a lot, actually, that I haven't mentioned. I haven't had a chance to talk to Trice or Mallory at length since I returned, so I don't know everything. But I can tell you what I do know."

Rylen spent the next half hour relating the weeks leading up to Adamant as well as their belief that Warden Stroud had emerged from the Fade unscathed. Cullen took it in with a rather glazed look in his eye, but he didn't try to deny or interrupt. By the end of the tale, both their glasses sat empty on the table.

"That's... something," Cullen said on a tired exhale.

Rylen just nodded, his mind drifting away from Adamant to all the questions he'd not asked yet this evening. Questions he'd been _afraid_ to ask. He picked up his empty glass and frowned at the distorted reflection at the bottom as the silence dragged on.

When Cullen shifted as if he might get up, Rylen finally blurted, "What's the withdrawal like... in the beginning?"

Cullen blinked, his mind moving to the new topic more slowly as the whiskey took effect. He settled more firmly in his chair, however, and Rylen poured them both another drink. To Rylen's surprise, Cullen picked up the glass and drained it in one swallow.

"Hard," Cullen finally rasped through the burn of the whiskey, banging his glass on the table probably harder than he meant. "One of the most difficult things I've ever endured."

"Fuck," Rylen muttered under his breath.

Cullen caught Rylen's grimace, and he shook his head. His voice took on a new sense of urgency as he leaned forward to grab up his empty glass and roll it between his hands.

"It's different for me. I had to quit outright. The circumstances and my own need to be free dictated that. It doesn't have to be that way for you."

Rylen frowned. "What? Why? To get past the addiction, I have to quit lyrium, right?"

Cullen shook his head. "First, you should know that you don't get _past_ it. You learn to _live_ with it. And second... Dorian and I spoke of my experiences once, and he told me that there are other ways... Probably safer than what I did and far less painful."

Rylen's eyes widened. "Other ways? What ways?"

Cullen shook his head. "I don't know the details. Something about gradual reduction of rations in a strategic way. His colleagues developed the method for mages who became addicted, but he thought it should work the same for a templar, at least in theory. I can ensure Dorian speaks with you about it... if you'd like?"

Rylen's chest compressed, his lungs sucking in erratic breaths as he considered. A safer, less painful way... could it be possible?

"It wouldn't hurt to speak with the man, I suppose."

Cullen gave a wide smile. "I'll leave him a note for when he returns with the Inquisitor. You might also speak with the mage healers. They may have ideas, or know of mages who have looked into such things. In fact..."

Cullen trailed off, and Rylen could see his mind working. Rylen, however, was still stuck on the possibility that he could quit gradually. It seemed too good to be true.

"I'll see what I can put together when I get back to Skyhold," Cullen finished after a long pause. "In the meantime, I should get some sleep. I already drank more than I intended."

Rylen stood up with Cullen and held out his hand. "Thank you, Cullen. I hope... I hope it works out."

"As do I." Cullen gripped Rylen's hand and looked him in the eye. "It really is worth it."

Rylen nodded. "Safe travels, friend."

With that, Cullen slipped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving Rylen to a half-full bottle of whiskey and his thoughts. He stood motionless beside the table as they bombarded him from every direction.

Cullen had become disillusioned with the Order as a whole, and no wonder, considering what the man had gone through in Kinloch and then in Kirkwall. He'd viewed lyrium as chaining him to his old life and had broken free of those bindings in one swift stroke.

But Rylen hadn't seen the Order as a problem, even when he left it due to poor leadership. The people, not the Order itself, had always been the problem. He'd been a creature bred for the structure and rhythm of templar life, and he'd attempted to form his place within the Inquisition into a semblance of templar life through routine and order. And lyrium.

But the differences had scratched under his skin, never letting him settle. Never letting him _be_. Only when he could no longer avoid the rawness under his skin had he recognized it for what it truly was: The addiction screaming at him for _more_.

And the lack of lyrium showed him... himself.

His belief in the Order faltered under this truth - that no matter how willingly he'd spoken the vows, he hadn't truly understood the cost. And no one in the whole of the Order had bothered to explain it. He'd had to see it for himself, and even then, he'd rationalized away the cost of forced addiction.

The need for lyrium pounded underneath it all, lulling him into accepting the comfort he'd found in the structure of the past week. A dose in the morning. A dose at night. Dreamless sleep shifts. Sharp edges and sharper logic. In spite of his fears and disgust with himself, he'd fallen into it easily.

His mind shrieked with circling warnings. Without it, he'd fall apart. He'd become reckless and clumsy. He'd become less than he was. He'd fall. Had _fallen_.

But what of the good? What of the promise of a future written by himself and no one else... or perhaps _someone_...?

 _Maybe this_ is _you, Rylen. Maybe it's the lyrium that makes you into something you're not._

The clamor in his brain escalated into deafening noise - like a storm over the ocean or a thousand boots marching into battle. No singular thoughts. No overwhelming emotion. Just noise bordering on physical pain echoing in the recesses of an empty room.

He reached out to touch the bottle, fingers grazing the smooth glass. The din grew louder, drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, but the soothing glass under fingertips brought a few more thoughts to the surface.

He could be free.

He could be less... or maybe _more_.

He could die.

He closed his eyes briefly against the roar piercing his ears like needles jammed through his eardrums. He gritted his teeth. His fingers curled around the neck. He tipped the bottle, brought it to his lips, and drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. This chapter is almost 11K words because neither Trice nor Rylen would behave themselves. So, this is the story they demanded to tell in this chapter. Blame them if you don't like it. ;)


	25. Swear on the griffon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Rylen failed to chat about a few things before starting up their little romance.

"You kissed my Mama!"

Rylen whipped his head up from his paperwork, and then immediately slammed his eyes shut and bit back a groan as pain exploded through his temples. When the throbbing subsided to a manageable level, he opened his eyes to find Clara standing in his office doorway, finger pointing accusingly, back ramrod straight. Rylen blinked at her a few moments, struggling to catch up. She crossed her arms over her chest and let out a displeased huff at the delay in response.

He and Trice hadn't talked about what to tell the children. They should have, of course, but whenever they had a few moments together, _other_ things always seemed to distract them. However, Clara seemed to be tired of waiting for them to get their collective act together. And her grasp of patience - and quiet - left something to be desired.

"Daniel saw you. In the courtyard yesterday. He told me, and I don't like it!"

"Why's that?" Rylen asked in a hushed tone, fervently hoping his calmness would translate into quieter responses.

No such luck.

" _Because!_ "

At her defiant shout, Rylen squeezed his eyes closed against another stab of pain and a wave of nausea. He'd been fighting both since waking from his drunken stupor of the night before. It had been a mistake to continue drinking after Cullen left, of course, but he'd intended to suffer through it as punishment for his blasted stupidity. He hadn't figured on a resonant child with a stubborn streak, though.

"Ah," Rylen said in a wry tone as he dragged himself out of his chair. "That explains everything."

She poked her nose up in the air, like some sort of desert princess. "You can't kiss her anymore."

Rylen raised a brow and hummed noncommittally at the decree as he walked around his desk and approached her. He paused in front of the little girl, a miniature of Trice right down to the flashing black eyes and scowling face. He smiled wryly as he recalled those first weeks of their stay in the keep, all fire and wrath and bewilderment - at least on his part.

His smile turned to a frown as he realized he'd won over the mother and, at least partly, the son, but he'd barely given the daughter a second glance. He knelt down and met Clara's glare head-on.

"Are you upset because of the kissing? Or because neither your mama nor I told you about it?"

She seemed nonplussed by the question at first, but then her eyes narrowed.

"Don't try to trick me," she warned.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I would never."

"Maaaybe."

"Maybe?"

She jerked her head in an affirmative motion, her whole upper body jerking along with it. "Maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you _would_."

At least she'd lowered her voice to a normal volume. He cocked his head to the side and gave her an appraising glance.

"What can I do to convince you, Clara-girl?"

She screwed up her face and looked toward the ceiling as if considering his words. Then, she extended her arm and tapped him on the right shoulder as if she were knighting him.

"Swear on the griffon."

"Fine, then. I hereby swear by the-"

"Nonononono! You have to swear _on_ the griffon! Come on!"

She grabbed his arm as if to pull him off his knees and out of his office. He didn't even have to expend any energy to resist, though she was stronger than he'd expected. He patted her hand, and waited for her to turn back to him, a deep scowl contorting her face.

"How about I do that later? Right now, we should make sure we understand one another, eh?"

At this, she snatched her hand away. A strange noise started up in the back of her throat, beginning low but gradually rising in pitch as her body swayed back and forth. Rylen felt a surge of panic along with the dull throb of his headache. Was she going to throw a tantrum? Maker, he didn't think he'd be able to endure it. He blurted the first thing that popped into his head.

"I _promise_ we'll visit the griffon later."

The noise stopped, thank the Maker, though she still looked ready to burst into tears. She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling comically with the dramatic movement.

"I guess we can go later," she said in a grudging voice as she thrust out her hand. "We have to shake on it, though."

She'd trust that he'd follow through on her trust exercise based solely on a handshake? Rylen took her hand, feeling distinctly like he'd been bamboozled. This feeling was followed by the realization that he'd lost the thread of their conversation inside the labyrinth of Clara's skewed thought processes. What had they been...?

"Why do you wanna kiss Mama, anyway?"

Right. Kissing. Specifically, kissing Trice - something he had no intention of stopping.

"Because I like her," Rylen responded as honestly - and as vaguely - as he could. After a brief pause, he shrugged. "And she likes me, too."

"When two people like each other, they kiss?"

"Sometimes, but not always."

Clara nodded. "Well, _that's_ good. I like Jacques, but I don't want to kiss him!"

"You don't ever have to kiss anyone you don't want to, Clara. Even your brother. Your mama told you that, right?"

"Yep! And that we shouldn't talk to people we don't know. That one is hard. I like to talk to people."

"I know you do. Do you like to talk to me?"

She made a so-so noise and drew out her words. "Soooometiiiimes. Not when you have angry face, though."

Rylen's brows shot up. "Angry face?"

"Yeah, when you go like this."

Clara's features twisted into a grotesque - and consequently comedic - parody of what he probably looked like when he was irritated. He couldn't help himself. He burst into laughter.

In fact, he laughed so hard, he lost his balance and fell backward onto his ass. Clara laughed, too - more at him than with him truth be told. He didn't mind.

"You're funner than I thought!" she exclaimed.

When he made no move to get up, she sat down in front of him, her residual giggles causing him to chuckle in kind. He wiped away an errant tear, his head throbbing from the pressure and the noise. For the first time all day, though, he didn't notice it as much. Hoping he'd built enough goodwill to settle things between them, he tentatively brought up their original topic.

"Fun enough to be able to kiss your mama if she wants me to?"

Clara's giggles died away, but her face reflected thoughtfulness instead of anger. Then, she tilted her head to the side.

"Mama never kisses anyone except on the cheeks. You know, like this." She made the motion of kissing one cheek, then the other, in the Orlesian fashion - with exaggerated kissy noises, of course. "So... I guess it's ok if it's _just_ you. No one else."

Rylen smiled. "That's my hope, lassie."

Clara drew on the stones for a moment, and Rylen took the opportunity to close his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. When she spoke again, her voice had descended into a soft hesitance.

"Sorry if it sounded like I didn't like you before."

Rylen's eyes slitted open, and he observed the girl through his lashes. She sat with her head down, her finger poking at a loose stone on the floor before flicking it across the room.

"I'm a captain," he said with a shrug. "I'm used to people not liking me."

"Well, I like you. Especially 'cause Mama likes you."

A strange warmth bloomed in his chest at her simple but seemingly heartfelt words. He recognized it from the moments he'd spent with Jacques. At that thought, an ache joined with the warmth. He'd seen little of Jacques since the incident with the training lessons, but perhaps now, he could clear the air between them.

This time, he'd need to speak with Trice first about restarting the boy's training, though. Rylen had learned his lesson there.

"I find I'm rather fond of you, too, Clara-girl," he answered softly.

"Good! Can we go see the griffon now? You promised!"

Rylen grimaced as he stood and reached out a hand for hers. "I've an idea you're not where you're supposed to be right now, so let's find your mama before she turns this place upside down and inside out looking for ye."

This put a damper on Clara's excitement, proving Rylen's suspicions to be true. She did, however, slip her small hand into his, and together, they set off for the kitchen. The strange swirl of feelings elicited from little fingers clinging to his turned Rylen's thoughts inward - a habit of increasing frequency these days.

The more time he spent with the Valeras, the more he thought of them as his own. The idea frightened him more with the rightness than the responsibility.

However, his relationship with Trice still held more risk than security. She could decide at any time that she no longer wanted to help him fight his demons.

His heart thumped painfully in his chest at the thought. He wanted her, but he wouldn't hold her to her earlier words. Neither of them knew exactly how difficult it would be for him to quit lyrium. Even if the Inquisitor's other mage companion - the Tevinter, Dorian - could reduce the withdrawal symptoms, it would still be incredibly difficult.

Trice might be able to handle the resulting problems. Or they'd both deal with the heartbreak of breaking the tentative bond between them. The children, however...

Perhaps he ought to have been more discreet with their relationship. Not out of any shame or fear of what others might say, but for the well-being of the girl who so quickly forgot her troubles, who now happily chatted at him as they descended from the upper level. And for the clever boy whose determination and wit had so thoroughly won Rylen's affection weeks ago.

He and Trice needed to _talk_.

 

___________________________

 

When Jacques skidded into the kitchen and announced that he couldn't find Clara, Trice's world spun into chaos. She stood stock-still as every terrible scenario ran through her head at once - one in particular, involving discovery and kidnapping, hitting her like a nightmare come to life. Jacques jumped up and down at the door before running to her to pull at her hand.

"Mama, come on! We have to find her!"

The urgency in his voice got her moving. She ripped off her apron, not sparing anyone in the kitchen a glance save Katlin. The other woman shooed her away with a worried look and the wave of a hand, and Trice raced through the door, her mind already focused on getting to the gate. They'd just reached the top of the stairs to the lower level when a small, achingly familiar voice called out to her.

"Where you going, Mama?"

Her heart pounding from her fright and now the rush of relief, Trice spun around to see not only Clara, but Rylen as well. He gave her an apologetic smile as the two of them approached, hand in hand. And though her mind reeled from the glut of contrary emotions she'd experienced in the past few minutes, she warmed to the sight.

She noticed Jacques had not let go of her hand, and she looked down to find him staring at the stone floor. She only had a moment to ponder his odd behavior before Clara reached them and took up all her thoughts. Trice dropped to her knees in front of her daughter and crushed the girl in a desperate embrace.

"Clara! Where have you been! Maker, I thought..."

She trailed off, her watery gaze lifting to rest on Rylen's face. He shrugged.

"She heard some news she didn't care for and came to tell me all about it."

Trice pulled back from Clara to look her in the eyes. "You were to stay with your brother, young lady. If you heard news you didn't like, what should you have done?"

At Trice's clipped tone, Clara narrowed her eyes, her lips pushing outward in an impressive pout. Finally, she shook her head violently, refusing to speak.

Trice closed her eyes and let out a breath through her nose. When she opened them, she found Rylen looking down at her with a quirked brow. They shared a wry smile, and once again, she experienced that wealth of thought and feeling passing between them. This time, however, he didn't look away. His gaze and smile softened, and he gave her a slow nod. The moment of adult camaraderie bolstered her resolve, and she turned back to Clara, whose hand, she was surprised to note, still rested firmly within Rylen's.

"You should have told your brother and asked him to help you. Or asked him to come with you to find me so I could help you."

Clara's hand finally wrenched out of Rylen's as she backed away from both adults and shouted, "But it's his fault!"

"What?" Trice exclaimed in confusion. "Who?"

Trice looked up a Rylen and found him just opening his eyes from a wince. She gave him a curious glance before it hit her: He was probably hung over from his night with the commander. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, and she bit back a laugh. He graced her with a withering glare.

"It's not kind to laugh at a man in pain," he grumbled.

A smile played at her lips as she stood to pat him on the shoulder. "You're so right. I have something for the headache if we can get through this in the next century."

At that, he nodded and then jerked his head toward Clara. Trice turned to find the girl had crossed her hands over her chest and stood against the far wall, frowning at them. Trice looked back to Rylen with a questioning gaze, hoping he would explain things. His gaze traveled back to Clara, and he remained quiet for a long moment.

"Perhaps this is a conversation best had in private," he finally offered.

Trice raised her brows in surprise. It finally occurred to her to wonder why Clara had sought out Rylen in particular. It didn't take long for the answer to come to her. She grimaced.

"Aye," Rylen said in a low tone. "That."

Then, the most interesting thing happened. Clara pushed off the wall and looked up to Rylen with beseeching eyes.

"We're not done here, lassie," he said to her, as if anticipating some sort of question.

Clara looked disappointed, but when he offered his hand again, she took it without hesitation. Something inside Trice melted a little at that.

Rylen motioned Trice to go ahead of them. She looked around for Jacques, but he seemed to have disappeared. She sighed and took the stairs down to her quarters.

Jacques' head jerked up from a book when she opened the door. He scrambled to his feet and opened his mouth, but shut it again as soon as Rylen and Clara appeared in the doorway behind her. She gave her son a questioning glance, but his gaze had already fallen to the floor. She shook her head and resolved to worry about Jacques' strange behavior later. One mystery at a time. When Rylen closed the door behind him, she immediately got down to it.

"Clara?"

The girl huffed out an exaggerated sigh and mustered all her attitude. "Daniel said you kissed the cap'n. I... I didn't like it. But..." She looked up at Rylen and then lifted both hands, palm up, and shrugged. "I guess it's ok now."

"You guess?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"Yeah," she says before twirling to Trice. "But only him! You can't kiss anyone else. You have to promise!"

Her initial shock at Clara's declaration and demand turned to a fighting off a smile as she glanced over at Rylen. "I think I can safely promise you that, my love."

Rylen had the audacity to wink at her, one corner of his full lips stretched upward into a smirk. She shook her head at him in amused exasperation but then furrowed her brow as something occurred to her.

"Why did you go to the captain about this?" she asked as she kneeled in front of her daughter. "Why not come talk to me about it?"

Clara pointed an accusing finger at Rylen. "Because _he_ kissed _you_! Scooped you right off the ground, Daniel said." Then she scooted closer, her face turning incredibly serious, and took Trice's hand. "But Cap'n says you wanted kisses. Is that true, Mama?"

Trice felt ridiculous for blushing at a simple question from her child, but her face blazed as she knelt there in front of Clara. She cleared her throat, her eyes darting to Rylen for a moment before answering the question.

"Yes. I did. I do."

Clara's lip curled in a "that's gross" kind of way, and she sighed deeply. "I don't get it."

"The captain and I like each other," Trice tried to explain. "People who like each other sometimes kiss."

"Yeah," Clara nodded, "that's what-"

"But you said you weren't going to."

Trice snapped her head to Jacques at the boy's unexpected interruption, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes never wavered as he stared at Rylen and waited for a response. Trice lowered her brows in confusion as Rylen cleared his throat and then swallowed.

Clearly, the conversations between Rylen and Jacques had veered away from stargazing and combat at some point during the past few weeks. She'd anticipated her son would question her. She'd hadn't counted on him being brave enough to question Rylen.

Rylen's eyes sought hers, as if asking for help or maybe permission, but she just looked back at him, nonplussed. She could do little to help if he'd made her son some sort of promise and then reneged on it. That would have to be his mess to clean up.

Finally, she motioned to Jacques, attempting to convey a gentle "get on with it." Rylen let out a deep breath and grimaced as he looked back to Jacques.

"At the time, I said _maybe_ ," Rylen corrected before pausing and shifting his stance. "And then... well... sometimes things happen that... make us change our minds."

"Like what?" he asked, his voice less tentative and more... curious?

Rylen cleared his throat and looked to Trice once again, a shade of panic passing over his face. Based on the limited conversation, she gathered that Rylen hadn't made Jacques any promises, so she felt comfortable weighing in on the question.

"We decided we liked each other well enough to make the risk worth it," she explained. "Does that make sense, darling?"

Jacques looked at her for a moment and then nodded. His gaze turned back to Rylen, and his voice came out more confident.

"So you _are_ courting my mother, then?" he pressed.

"I..." Rylen paused and looked to Trice, his expression softening. "I suppose I am."

A flash of something else in Rylen's gaze gave her pause, however. Hesitance? Doubt? She swallowed and looked away from him, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. Was he second-guessing the relationship?

He'd interacted with her children in a casual way up to now, but his involvement in this conversation had a... familial edge to it. He'd participated with trepidation, but he hadn't backed down at Clara or Jacques' questions.

Then what was that look in his eye? She decided she didn't want to know. Not yet. Trice turned to Clara, desperate for a distraction.

"Do you understand better now?"

"No," she answered bluntly before reaching out to pat Trice on the shoulder. "But... if it makes you happy..."

Trice nearly snorted out a laugh. She could actually _hear_ Nellie speaking through Clara's wording and inflection.

"I'm so glad you approve," Rylen dead-panned.

Clara nodded like a condescending queen to her subjects as she looked between Rylen and Trice. "You have to tell me about stuff from now on, ok?"

Rylen wasn't nearly as successful at hiding his snort of amusement, and Trice had to fight hard against the smile trying to break free across her face. She stood up and put her hand on Clara's head.

"I'll tell you what you need to know, darling. You know that."

Clara harrumphed at that, but a moment later, she'd latched on to Rylen's hand again. "Ok, so we're done, right? Now we can go?"

"Go where?" Trice asked, a frown pulling at her lips.

Rylen gave her a sheepish look. "I may have... promised to take her to see the griffon."

"He's gotta swear on it!" Clara exclaimed.

Rylen winced, which reminded Trice of his predicament. She hurried over to the small lockbox at her bedside, opened it, and retrieved the headache powder she'd brought from Val Royeaux.

"I don't know what's going on with the griffon," she said as she walked to him and placed the pouch in his free hand, "but if you plan to spend any more time with Clara, you'd better do something about that headache."

He eyed the pouch and then tossed and caught it again, as if weighing the contents. "Medicine?"

"A headache remedy from Val Royeaux," Trice explained. "A pinch in some hot water should do it."

"Mama has to take it after the scary times," Clara added.

"Hush, Clara," Jacques said as he moved up to stand beside Trice. "You don't need to say everything that comes to your head out loud, you know."

Rylen let out a huff of laughter even as Trice gave him a pained look. Their gazes locked again, but this time, she didn't see that strange gleam in his eye. He just looked amused... and a bit tired.

"It's alright, my boy," Rylen assured Jacques. "I know about the dreams and visions."

"You... you do? And..." Jacques looked between Trice and Rylen. "And you know about us? About..."

"Aye, lad," Rylen affirmed. "Though there are a few things your mother and I need to talk about. I hope you don't mind if I steal her away for a bit this evening for a chat."

"No..." He paused and looked at Clara. "As long as she promises not to run off again."

Trice raised an eyebrow at Clara. "She promises. In fact, she's going to be doing a lot of hanging around as she faces the consequences of running away from her brother."

A whine started up in the back of Clara's throat, but Trice didn't give the girl time to work herself into a tantrum. She shuffled them all back to the kitchen and made up a cup of hot tea for Rylen to take the medicine. Clara seemed to be talking him into something when she returned, but she cut that short as well.

"Whatever was promised will have to wait until later," she said as she guided Clara to the corner and handed her a stack of books she'd brought from the room. "Possibly much later if you don't behave yourself."

Clara gave Trice and evaluating stare, as if sizing up her chances of wiggling out of her punishment. After a moment, she relented, giving a disgruntled huff as she plopped down on a box in the corner.

Trice turned to Jacques, her hand automatically reaching out to brush his thick locks from his forehead. He tolerated it, but his eyes slid to Rylen, his expression morphing into dismay. She dropped her hand to his shoulder instead.

"You did well today, Jacques."

He blinked up at her. "But... I lost Clara-"

"Clara ran away from you, darling, and you came to me immediately. You kept me from panicking by being there with me. I'm proud of you."

He glanced over at Rylen before looking back to her. "Does that mean..."

"The captain and I will discuss things tonight."

Trice thought he might whoop or at least give her a grin, but instead, he swallowed hard. Then he turned toward Rylen, though she noticed he kept his gaze about chest level.

"Ser, I wanted-" He cut off and took a deep breathe. "I wanted to say that I'm glad you're back and... and I'm glad you're... you're ok. And that I'm sorry for what happened before. For... for lying."

Jacques' eyes slid up to peek at Rylen's face, and Trice did the same. The warmth radiating from Rylen's expression did funny things to her insides. Rylen reached out to grip Jacques' shoulder, and she couldn't help seeing the action as... well... fatherly.

"I believe you, my boy," he said in a gruff tone. "I hope we understand one another now?"

"Yesser," Jacques asserted with an eager nod. "I understand a lot more than I did before. So... even though I'm sorry for it, I'm... I'm kinda glad it happened, you know?"

"Well, that's the best outcome of a poor situation, I think," Rylen returned. "If you don't learn from your mistakes, you'll only repeat them."

"I've learned so much! I'd..." He glanced at Trice before adding, "I'd like to learn so much more."

"First lesson, then," Rylen said, a note of seriousness seeping into the warmth of his voice. "Your honor is tied to your integrity. Lying for selfish gain will always be dishonorable. There are times a person needs to conceal the truth, but those times will always be to benefit another. Never yourself."

Jacques' gaze lowered to the floor. "Yesser."

Trice's hand flew to cover her heart as Rylen gently nudged Jacques' chin with a crooked finger until the boy looked up at him once more.

"You did well today, Jacques."

"Th-thank you, ser."

Jacques eyes had turned to saucers, and Trice pressed more firmly on her chest to keep her heart from beating through her ribs. This moment had turned into so much more than she'd imagined. Unease crept into the warmth surrounding her heart and picked at the contentment she'd built around herself since her and Rylen's agreement.

She could see it in her son's eyes - how he idolized Rylen already. It would have been impossible to stop it, even if they hadn't agreed to be together, though. He was everything Jacques thought he wanted to be.

But knowing what she did about Rylen's future, wasn't she setting her children up for potential heartbreak? Should she try to limit their interactions with him until he'd made a decision?

She and Rylen needed to _talk_.


	26. The talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trice and Rylen have a lot to talk about.

By the time Trice collected the children and headed back to their quarters that evening, she'd worked herself into a tizzy. On one hand, she had no intention of going back on her promise to help Rylen through quitting lyrium if he decided to do so. On the other, wouldn't it be reckless of her to put her children into the position to love a man who was in real danger of illness or death?

She argued with herself even as she read through Clara's attempt at writing a letter to Nel and Marcel, practiced conversations with both children in Antivan, and finally got them all ready for bed. She had just settled down in her bed with Jacques to help him through reading a novel in Antivan when someone knocked at the door. Trice's heart jumped with nervous anticipation.

"I'll get it!" Clara cried, bounding from her cot. Before Trice could maneuver out of her bed, Clara darted to the door and opened it wide. "It's the cap'n!" her daughter announced, turning back to grin at them as Rylen stepped into the room.

"Well, this is quite the cozy scene," he remarked with his usual lilt.

His eyes collided with hers, and as wild as her heart had been a moment before, it stilled as she read the questions swimming in those pale depths. Hope and dread crowded the cavity between her ribs, forcing out all but the barest of breaths.

Clara tugged at Rylen's hand, breaking his gaze, and Trice pushed away the heaviness of the moment. Inhaling deeply, she handed the book to Jacques and got out of bed.

"Do what you can on your own for now," she instructed him. Then, she walked over to collect Clara, glancing at Rylen only a moment before leading her daughter to her cot. "Back to bed with you."

"Can't I stay up 'til you come back?"

Trice shook her head and lifted the covers for Clara to climb in. "It's time to sleep, now. Jacques will be here with you, and I will return soon."

Clara huffed but climbed into bed nonetheless. Trice took a calming breath and turned back to Rylen. His expression, now devoid of questions, reflected instead a calm, quiet contemplation. She offered a wan smile in return.

"Shall we go?" she asked.

Rylen said nothing but turned and swept his arm toward the door, indicating she should go first. He followed her out the door and closed it behind them, but in the hallway, she hesitated. If they went to his quarters, they might talk... or they might succumb to the pull that even now tied her insides into knots and destroyed her careful composure.

"Perhaps... we should go to your office?" she suggested, giving him a sidelong glance.

Rylen's expression remained placid, but his eyes sharpened. He searched her face for a moment before nodding his assent.

"Aye, that might be for the best." A small, secret smile graced his lips. "Lead the way, your highness."

She hummed a laugh, the familiar jest releasing some of the nervous pressure in her chest. The dread remained, however, as she led them up the stairs to the top level. A small, petty part of her own psyche reminded her that she'd avoided relationships for just this reason.

But in truth, she wondered if she'd ever stood a chance against the pull between them. She feared her fate would always be entwined with this man, whether she willed it or not.

Rylen moved in front of her as they approached his office, taking a ring of keys from his pocket to unlock the door. He entered the room, now shrouded in the long shadows of dusk, while she hovered in the doorway. A few moments later, she heard the scratch of steel and flint, and a solitary candle sparked to life. Rylen set the taper on a clear corner of his rather messy desk, and with the light to guide her, Trice stepped inside the room and closed the door. As she moved toward the light, she took in her surroundings.

"I haven't been here since..."

She cut off and blushed as she recalled the scene she'd made that day... and the lovemaking that came after. A glance at Rylen revealed his thoughts had tracked in much the same way. The smirk that graced his lips warmed her to the core.

She cursed her thoughtless tongue. Bringing up that day would not make this conversation easier.

"I think, perhaps, we both have a few things on our minds tonight?" Rylen said in a low tone.

His inflection turned the words into a question, but the glint in his eye revealed what they both knew. They'd left too many things unsaid for far too long. So, she spoke.

"I glossed over my own history when we last spoke of it. I think it's time to fix that."

He nodded, a note of relief in the slant of his brows and the relaxing of the muscles in his face - whether because he wished to know more about her or because he dreaded saying what he needed to say and was glad for a reprieve, she didn't know. He sat in his desk chair and motioned for her to take a chair on the opposite side of the desk. She'd much rather have sat next to him, but this... this was better. She took a long moment to gaze into his clear blue eyes, trying to divine what his own words would bring later tonight. She could guess, but his expression remained... cool in a way. Not at her - that electricity still hummed and crackled between them, even with the uncertainty piercing through the bubble of happiness they'd lived in for the past few weeks.

But avoidance no longer held the appeal it once had. She desperately wished for a bond built on complete trust. That meant telling her story. The whole of it. But first...

"Perhaps I'd better start with the more immediate story of what happened with Solas, though."

"And with your dreams," he added.

"Yes." She paused, trying to remember what she'd already told him. She shook her head. "I can't remember what I've already said and what I haven't."

Rylen shrugged. "Then start from the beginning."

So, she did. She told him of her dream from the night of the battle. Rylen, his face taut with displeasure, questioned her in minute detail about the spirit she'd encountered at the end. She answered as best she could before moving on to the nights she and Solas spent searching for Stroud. Finally, she ended with their final conversation with the spirit.

"It called Solas a 'wolf' and said that his chosen path led to destruction. I've told Mallory already, of course, but... it's all very..."

"Circumstantial?" Rylen supplied.

She nodded. "I don't know what to think, but he hasn't sought me out in the Fade the past few nights. Nor have I seen much of him during waking hours. He could have left the keep already for all I've seen of him."

Rylen grunted. "He's here. Mostly in the healer tents these days. He's rather good at patching up hopeless cases from what I understand."

"Well... that would explain his absence," she admitted.

"But you don't trust him," Rylen observed.

She shrugged. "I know spirits make templars nervous-" Rylen snorted at this. "-but the spirit we met... what reason would it have to deceive me?"

"I can't pretend to know the inner workings of spirits, lass. Solas is supposed to be the expert."

"Yes, and that's the other thing," Trice said. "At the end, it almost felt as though Solas were _pushing_ me out of the dream. Why would he do that if he weren't hiding something?"

"I suppose," Rylen said slowly, "we'll have to trust Mallory to ferret out the truth if there is one to be had."

Trice grimaced. She didn't care for the idea of simply letting Solas continue on as before, but what proof did she have? None. She would have to put her trust in Mallory with this as much as she had with her own safety.

"Then... your dreams have been quiet of late?" Rylen asked, a tentative note to his voice.

"Completely back to normal," she affirmed. "Solas thinks the Wardens weakening the Veil at Adamant as well as my proximity to the demon allowed it a foothold. He doesn't believe I'll have any further problems."

"Do you trust him in this, at least?"

"Yes," she said after a moment's pause. "He is hiding something... but I believe he's been truthful in his assessment of my abilities."

"I don't think I have to tell you how relieved I am that you'll be... that the worst seems to be over," he said softly.

"Me, too," she replied with a small smile. It faded, however, as she forged ahead with the conversation. "And now you know all that, I suppose it's time to tell you more about myself."

Her heart pounded as she began speaking, first revealing details of her childhood in Antiva and then explaining her denial of her ability and how she'd hidden it from her parents. She told him of her devastation at her mother's death, which only increased when her father sent her away to a cold grandmother. She revealed the depth of her despair at receiving the note months later announcing her father's death. She'd felt trapped, unloved, and at the mercy of a power she didn't understand.

"If I'd grown up that way, never knowing what it was to be loved and cared for, it might not have been such a shock," she murmured to the edge of Rylen's desk. "But to know and then have it taken away so suddenly and completely... I reacted rather poorly to my grandmother's abuse."

"Abuse?"

Trice grimaced as she heard him sit up straighter in his chair. She didn't lift her gaze, but she imagined him leaning forward a bit.

The word hadn't been hers, but had come instead from the mouths of Nel and Marcel. They'd witnessed the way her grandmother treated her and named it accordingly.

"I was wild and belligerent. I was willful. I was the daughter of the woman who'd taken away my grandmother's youngest son. Even though my grandfather, also Antivan, had been the one to take Father to Antiva, had been the one to introduce him to the wine business and to my mother's family, I was a convenient scapegoat. And when Father died, too, things only got worse."

" _Physical_ abuse?"

Rylen's voice held a tightness that brought to mind a wound spring. Trice shrugged, affecting a calm she didn't feel.

"The real abuse came from her mouth, not the occasional slaps in retaliation for my impertinence. She... let's just say Jacques' father had an easy time convincing me he loved me. By the time I met him, I was holding onto my self-worth by a thread."

She finally looked up at him and found his jaw clenched tightly. His eyes met hers, their depths shining with compassionate anger. On her behalf. She gave him a soft smile.

"You needn't pity me, love. And anyway, there's much more story to go."

So she continued on with meeting and falling for Jacques' father. Although she kept her eyes downcast, her palms turned clammy and her hands shook as she told him of her marriage... and then the desertion. Thankfully, he didn't interrupt, so she moved on to explain how Nel and Marcel had first worked in secret to help her before they left her grandmother's employ altogether to help Trice raise her child.

"I owe them so much, Rylen." Her voice cracked a little and she swallowed back the tears their kindness always inspired. "Especially in those early years... and then later, too."

"After Clara's father was killed, you mean?"

Trice nodded. "His death..."

She looked up at Rylen, hesitating. She could see the stiffness in his posture and the mask of calm he wore in an attempt to moderate his emotions. But she'd vowed to tell him all, so she continued.

"I loved Jerome _so much_... his death nearly destroyed me," she choked into her lap. She raised her gaze to his to take in his face, now twisted in grief.. and a tinge of what looked like jealousy. She shook her head. "It's how I love, Rylen. It's why I haven't allowed myself to love anyone after him."

She swallowed down the words that had nearly come after. Panic clenched at her heart at the easy way those words had formed on her lips almost before she could snatch them back.

_Until now._

She'd not allowed herself to love again... _until now_. Her jaw clenched and she squeezed her eyes shut.

She bore the scars of her first and second loves on her body and in her mind, each more intense than the one before. What would come of loving Rylen? What would it do to her to _lose_ him? And more importantly, what would it do to her children?

He needed to know. How she'd fallen apart. How Clara's life had hung in the balance, and Trice hadn't even noticed. How she'd failed them all.

The words came haltingly, each one more difficult to push out than the one before. The long months without Jerome. Then the joyful years with him. His excitement over a their child, a child he never met outside her womb.

And then, the Void that came after. The days that had melded into one long stretch of darkness. Days she only knew about afterwards because of Nel and Marcel. She told him, as she choked back sobs, of her failure as a mother. She even told him of the awful, traitorous thoughts that had haunted her for six years - that perhaps Clara would be better off with Jerome's family.

She covered her face with her hands and pressed back the hot tears that burned in her eyes. Her shame, laid out before him. Her failure, open to his judgment. Through her fingers, she told him of the years afterward - the secrecy and fear. And then finally of their overconfidence in the short memory of the nobility.

"I should have known better," she rasped as her hands finally fell into her lap. "I should have remembered her tenacity. Her unbending will."

"Trice-"

" _No_. I should have done better." She looked up at him, the echoed grief in his expression nearly undoing her. "I'm their _mother_. Who will protect them if I don't?"

His jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes in seeming pain. When he opened them again, the grief had only multiplied.

"I would," he whispered.

She actually felt her face go slack with astonishment. Before she could collect herself, Rylen's laughter, harsh and bitter, cut through the gathered silence.

"Yes, I know," he ground out. "I'm not the answer. I'm just one more liability."

She gasped as if he'd struck her in the chest. She stood, the chair clattering to the floor in her haste.

"No," she whispered, still struggling for breath, "that's not what I-"

"Let's not lie to one another, love. I think we've probably done enough of that to ourselves, eh? You expect me to look down on you? After you've sacrificed so much? Been through so much? Trice, you're the strongest, most selfless woman I've ever met. And I..." He swallowed and looked away. "I would only be a hindrance."

The despair that coated every word struck her more forcefully than the words themselves. She struggled against the urge to go to him, to comfort him. She couldn't touch him. Not yet.

"Rylen," she whispered.

She braced herself for the full force of that despair in his eyes as she waited for him to look at her. The darkness in his gaze didn't disappoint. And in that moment, she understood.

She was too late to save herself and her children from pain.

No matter what he chose, no matter if she tried to keep the children away from him, he'd already found his way into their hearts. Jacques and Clara adored him. _She_ adored him. She couldn't see the future - not truly. She didn't know if tragedy lay in wait for them. But if it struck, the pain it brought would come regardless of whether she stood by him now. The only difference would be that Rylen would have to endure his choices alone.

And in that realization, she made peace with her decision.

"Tell me, Rylen."

 

___________________________

 

Her command felt more like the brush of a soft hand over his brow, a permission to purge all the doubt and fear that had crept into his heart and dictated so much of his life. He swallowed as he took in those soft eyes, dark as obsidian but softer than velvet.

He knew she expected him to judge her for her weaknesses. But how could he judge her when he felt himself dangling at the edge of a precipice of his own making?

Well, not _only_ his own.

"It's as long a story as yours, if not longer. You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Absolutely sure."

The answer held more meaning than he could allow himself to accept. So he took it at face value and began his own story as she moved forward to perch on the opposite edge of his desk.

He told her of his family, his wild early days, his ambition to be more than a mason's son, his burning desire to be useful and make a difference in the world. He told her of his long years in the Chantry, delving deeper into a few topics they'd already discussed in a superficial way: How he met and fell for Zora and how, at only twenty-two years old, he'd been disgraced and forbidden to speak of what he'd learned in the course of his "punishment" - the true cost of lyrium dependence.

He told her of his disgust at himself for being eager to please, eager to earn back the respect of those he'd disappointed. To _prove_ himself. He explained his penchant for action over words and thought, something he still favored and still struggled to keep in check. Of how easily he'd ignored his own niggling doubts in favor of the purpose and structure the Order offered.

"I saw my future, but I shut my eyes to it. It seemed so distant, but like a mountain in the distance, the closer I got, the more the doubts grew." He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it really started with the corruption I uncovered in the ranks... even among a Circle with so few mages as ours."

Her head cocked to the side, then nodded toward his left side. "Because of the fire?"

He nodded and proceeded elaborate on the fire that had swept through the Circle, telling her more of his injury and of the mages who escaped. He explained how he owed his life to many of those mages.

"But even that didn't make enough of an impression. I can still remember the overwhelming pride and vindication I felt when they promoted me to Knight-Captain a few months later." He looked sideways at her. "It took me years to open my eyes to the corruption that had been right under my nose the whole time."

"And so you left?"

Rylen exhaled a cold laugh. "No. I remained. I took my lyrium like a good little soldier. And I watched as the templar Order ate itself from the inside out. I clung to the Order even when most of the templars, even my own Knight-Commander, followed the Lord Seeker into abandoning the Chantry. I only left when... when another opportunity presented itself."

"The Inquisition."

He nodded. Another opportunity - with a guaranteed source of lyrium. The memories fell heavy on his shoulders, pressing him down. He hunched over his desk, his face in his hands.

The skim of a hand over his hair jolted him from the dark thoughts, and he sat up to move out of range. Even that small touch had him buzzing with a desire to pull her right over the desk and into his lap.

_Maker's blood._ He'd never stood a chance against her.

His eyes roved her face, taking in the cinnamon skin creased with worry and the tawny lips under assault from vicious teeth. She'd revealed so much, the depth of her fears and shame. He could do no less.

"I'm afraid."

Her face contorted with empathy, but she held his gaze as she responded. "Of what?"

The world around him fell away as he considered the question. He stared into the hazy blur of unfocused vision, the words coming from somewhere deep and unguarded.

"Mostly myself, I imagine." His gaze sharpened on her. "And how easy it would be for me to fail you... to hurt you."

"Rylen," she breathed.

He shook his head. "I don't just mean death. I mean... this cursed... _need_ for something that I know will be my undoing. I mean the risk that comes along with trying to free myself from it... and the inevitable ending if I _don't_ try."

"I know," she whispered.

Stillness settled between them, more a result of the seeming impasse than of any desire for it on either of their parts. She focused her attention on straightening a stack of papers on his desk, and he allowed the corner of his mouth to creep upward for a moment. Even in the midst of this pain, he found joy in simply being with her. His chest constricted with the full power of his own cowardice. He opened his mouth to break the stillness, but she beat him to it.

"I meant what I said before." Her eyes rose to capture his. "I will help you however I can."

His head tilted to the side, the gratitude mixing with his growing understanding of the futility of it all. "And what of Jacques and Clara? What will they do?"

She swallowed, but she did not drop her gaze. "I will care for them as I've always done. And if things become too difficult, I'll... make arrangements. I'll send them to Skyhold if need be. Nel and Marcel would care for them for a time, and gladly. They would be safe there."

Breath caught in Rylen's throat, his eyes widening. He stared at her, unblinking, before his lungs rebelled, his chest to caving in and then expanding to force air past the lump in his throat.

"Trice, love, I could never do that to you."

"It's not your choice."

She said the words in such a matter-of-fact way that he didn't think to oppose them at first. But his own sense of right, his honor, would not allow that kind of sacrifice.

"You would be devastated to be without them. What good would you be to me then?"

He knew his words hit their mark from the flash of pain in her eyes. But her response revealed the pain came from a different source than he supposed.

"You think so little of me?"

She stood from the desk and turned her back to him. One arm crooked so that he imagined her hand rested on her heart. The other bent at the elbow to hug tightly around her middle. The callousness of his words hit him them, but he hesitated. Wouldn't it be better this way? Before... before she... they...

"I would never let my children go any place I didn't think safe," she said quietly. "The problem will be that they won't want to go... and not only because of me..." She sucked in a breath, her voice suddenly shaking with a burst of emotion. "It won't matter, you know, if you push us away now. The damage is already done."

_Damage_.

Only the gravity of the moment prevented him from laughing. If his love for Trice had a better descriptor, he couldn't say what it would be.

In an instant, every muscle in his body froze. Then, he slowly stood from his chair, his heart punching at his ribs in with the sudden jolt of realization and fear and jubilation.

_Love_.

She turned at the sound of his movement, and he saw then the shimmer in her eyes. He saw the pain, the desperation, and, yes, the _love_ in her return gaze. He stepped around the desk, his movements slow and deliberate, until he stood before her. Her face appeared in sharp relief as the glow of the candle touched one side but left the other to languish in a murky half-light. Her hand indeed rested over her heart, and his own hand shook as he placed it over her hand and, consequently, her heart.

"I know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, love."

"Then _why_?"

"Because I'm a coward. Because..."

His voice faltered, but she didn't speak to fill the silence that again stretched between them. He looked down into her lovely face, a face that had become more precious to him than any other. He thought of the children who bore her likeness, who had accepted him into their lives so fully.

All of whom would suffer if he failed. Failed to win this war. Failed to conquer his own vices.

Fear grappled with his resolve, with his love for this woman that filled him more completely with every beat of her heart under his hand. With the acknowledgement and acceptance of his own feelings came a calm surety he'd never imagined. Her gaze softened, and he realized it must be in response to his own expression. He could feel it. The softness. The love pouring from every facet of his person.

If Trice would be harmed by his failure, if the children would be devastated, then... Then, for them, he would do whatever it took to succeed.

No matter what.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to hers with renewed determination. He wrapped his other arm around her as he drew her close.

"Because..." he breathed, his brogue thickening with the power of the words, "I love ye, and I could'na bear ta disappoint ye."

Her lips parted in surprise before pressing together to stop the tremble of her bottom lip. In the next moment, she threw herself into him, burying her head in his chest as she returned his embrace.

"Oh... Rylen," she gasped, "I love you, too."

And as much as his own acceptance of his feelings had steadied him, this fervent declaration had all the impact of an earthquake. His knees weakened in relief and terror, but his mind could only focus on the feel of her in his arms and the overwhelming need to be closer.

He used the hand now entwined with hers to push on her chest slightly, and when she looked up at him, her eyes shining with love, he bent his head to claim that affection. Every drop. All she'd give him.

And he would return it ten-fold. No matter what.

He moved to hold her more firmly, one hand cupping her backside while the other directed the angle of her head. He deepened the kiss, sweeping inside as soon as she opened to him, caressing her tongue with soft strokes. She returned the ferocity of his kiss with caresses of her own, her hands delving under the armor she'd already learned how to remove with astonishing speed.

The feel of his belt, along with his knife and sash, sliding to the floor brought him back to reality with a jolt. He laughed into her mouth before reaching down to push her hands from the drape of his chain mail. He trailed his lips to her cheek, mirth still infecting his tone.

"Patience, darling. Now that we know we're willing to fight for it, we've still a discussion to have about _how_ to make it work."

She pulled back, a dazed smile on her lips until she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She nodded and dropped her hands to her sides. He looked down at her, still smiling, and couldn't resist another kiss to those sweet lips. She leaned into the kiss but thankfully kept her hands to herself. He didn't know if he had the willpower to resist her a second time.

He moved to perch on the edge of his desk, much as she'd done earlier in the evening. She remained a pace away, her hands now resting one over the other on her belly. Her teeth still chewed at her bottom lip, and he swallowed and looked away to further gather his composure.

"I do want to quit," he admitted, his eyes still averted. "But I don't think it wise to attempt it until after Corypheus is dealt with. If it didn't feel like we were so close to a confrontation..." He smacked a fist to his deadened thigh and finally met her gaze. "There's so much risk, Trice."

The waver in his voice betrayed the fear that still flowed under the balm of their mutual declarations. He hated it.

"What if it takes years to reach a final confrontation?" she asked.

Rylen shook his head. "It's only been a week, of course, but I won't believe that such a blow as we just dealt will not force the enemy's hand in some way. I believe we'll see an end to this in a matter of months."

Trice blinked in surprise. "Do you think so?"

"Aye." Memories of Haven tried to interrupt his thoughts, but he pushed them back. "Even if it were not so, Cullen is... well, one of the Inquisitor's mage companions, who's also an acquaintance of mine, has some knowledge of dependency on lyrium. He's off hunting Venatori with the Inquisitor right now, but I plan to speak with him when he returns."

"Oh, the man from Tevinter, you mean? Yes, he was here for a couple of days. An interesting fellow."

Rylen laughed, feeling all the lighter for shucking off the weight of their earlier discussion. "Yes, Dorian is certainly that. He may also know how to reduce the risks of withdrawal."

"Really? That's encouraging."

"It is, but it's hard to know how much of his knowledge is practical and how much is theory at this point. Would you-" Rylen cut off and dropped his gaze before glancing back up at her. "Would you care to be there when I speak to him?"

She gave him a wide smile. "I'd love to." Her smile faded a bit. "So you're hoping by the time the war ends he might have developed a rudimentary method for quitting lyrium?"

"That's my hope, yes," he acknowledged. "I know my limitations, and quitting outright... I'm not sure I'd succeed."

The words pained him, and he winced at the weakness they implied. However, Trice's soft reply soothed the sting of his admission.

"I think you could, but I agree it's better to wait for a method that might be less painful and carry less risk." She paused for a moment before continuing. "I take it from the way you speak that the Commander supports you in your attempt."

"You could say that, yes," Rylen affirmed with a wry smile. "He practically begged me to quit."

"I like him better and better."

Rylen sat up straighter on the desk and narrowed his eyes. "Not you, too."

Trice laughed and raised her hands in supplication. "What? He's helping you! Of course, I like him."

Rylen slouched again, the fear of his own failure ebbing once more in favor of the quiet joy her presence brought him. They laughed together softly, and after another moment, he reached out a hand for her. She immediately inserted herself between his legs and leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He gave a soft sigh of contentment and kissed the top of her head.

"So you'd be willing to languish in this backwater keep in the middle of nowhere for the foreseeable future?" he murmured.

"My home, _our_ home, is wherever you are, Rylen."

He couldn't speak again for a long moment, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him with a glut of emotion. When he'd finally mastered himself enough to speak, he forced himself to speak further words of warning, a roughness gathering in his voice that he couldn't seem to dispel.

"I... I want to be there for you. I want to be there for your wee ones, too, but... things could go poorly, love. I could become ill, or..." He swallowed down bitterness as recollections of his years taking care of older templars came back with a vengeance. "I could forget you... or be so frantic that I don't recognize you. I could... hurt you without knowing it. Are you... are you truly certain-"

"I'll be careful, darling," she interrupted. "And we'll gather a few trusted others to help so you won't have to worry about that. I'm sure Mallory and Esthiel would gladly help. Or whomever would make you comfortable."

Rylen wished Cassandra or Cullen could be among the numbers of those helping, but for that comfort, he would've had to quit on that morning - nearly a year ago, now - when he'd found his commander curled in bed after a bad withdrawal episode. Instead, he'd caved to his cowardice and continued on as if nothing were amiss. Rylen's memory of that morning and of his response to Cullen's admission of quitting lyrium - _I wish I had the guts_ \- lingered in his mind along with the continued ill health of his friend.

"Even if I succeed at the beginning, Cullen said I won't ever be over it. The need remains. The pain comes and goes. What if-"

He cut off, horrified to hear his voice break on the thought: _What if I can't take it?_

She broke away from him, her hands cupping his jaw as she searched his face. "You can do this, Rylen. You're a stronger man than you think. And besides, I won't _let_ you fail."

Her vehement declaration loosened something deep in his chest. She'd offered her help before, but this was more than an offer. It was a promise. He felt it in the brush of her hands over his scruff and the weight of her body leaning against him. A promise to keep him on the path, to help him carry the burden. A promise to _be there_.

"I believe you," he whispered in return.

He truly did. And he was done talking for the moment.

 

**

 

Rylen lazily combed his fingers through Trice's long, dark hair as they lay together, naked and sated, on his bed. She'd checked in with Jacques to find both children asleep, so they'd hurried down the corridor to his room, barely getting the door closed before pouncing on one another.

But even with the urgency, their joining had been anything but hurried. They'd consummated their dedication to one another with whispered words of love, and though he knew hard times awaited them, he'd made a promise to Trice, and to himself, to be there for her and the children for as long as he could.

Unfortunately, that was the extent of what he could do, at least in an official capacity. Her earlier revelation, buried in a long history of hurt and loss, made that much clear.

"So..." he drawled. "You're married, then."

Her body tensed in his arms. He smiled to himself as he drew her closer.

"You needn't worry, love. If our present situation isn't enough to convince you, I can assure you I'm no prude. Especially when it comes to cuckolding the kind of bastard who'd desert his wife and child."

Trice laughed into his chest, but her grip on his arm tightened. "Still, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"About a man-child you haven't seen in a decade? He's about as worthy of thought as a bug under the heel of my boot."

She laughed again, this time relaxing into him once more. Her hand swept up his arm and then down his chest, and he shivered under her touch.

"I'm glad it doesn't bother you. In truth, there were so many other reasons not to become involved with anyone, I hadn't thought of him much until recently."

"Because of all the desperate pining for me?" he asked, a sly lilt to his tone.

"Oh, yes. Of course. It's _all_ because of you."

Her playful tone sent a chuckle rippling through his chest. She squeezed him tightly around the middle and pressed a kiss to his neck.

"It might _also_ be because Jacques has been asking questions," she said, the laughter fading from her voice.

"Ah, yes. He spoke a little about it. Said he preferred to think of Clara's father as his father, too. I can't say I blame the boy."

She remained silent for a moment before speaking in a low tone. "You don't have to, you know."

Rylen frowned into the darkness. They'd been in too much of a hurry to light a candle. Now, he began to regret their haste. He turned a little, settling her more firmly at his side.

"What's that, love?"

"You don't have to... take on a father role. It's enough that you care for them as you do."

Rylen sat up at this. He leaned over her, pulled a match from the base of the lamp stand, and lit the small lamp at his side table. Compared to the darkness of before, the light seemed dazzling, and he squinted a bit until his eyes adjusted. Trice sat up as well, her hair fanning over her shoulders and obscuring her lovely breasts with iridescent waves. She didn't meet his gaze, but her hand strayed to his chest, pressing her warm palm to his skin.

"I just mean I don't want you to feel pressured to... to be something you might not... I mean... unless you _want_ to."

She winced, and he almost smiled. He raised a hand to cover hers where it rested on his chest and used the other to tip her chin up. Their eyes met, and he studied her face for a moment before responding.

"I'll do what you think is best for them, Trice. If you think I should keep my distance-"

Her expression shifted to surprise and then frustration in the blink of an eye. "I didn't mean it like that, Rylen. I swear to you."

"What do _you_ want me to do?"

Her brow furrowed. "I guess... I want you to do whatever is comfortable for you."

"I already told you, lass. I want to be there for you _and_ Jacques _and_ Clara. I know about as much about being a father as a fish knows about flying, but I'm sure you can help me with that, eh?"

"I might have a few nuggets of advice I could impart," she admitted with a half smile.

"Then, how about I ask Jacques back to sparring lessons starting tomorrow?"

"He'll be ecstatic," she said softly, her eyes shining.

"And I suppose I owe Clara a visit to the griffon. I'm to swear on it, after all."

"She'll be your best friend for life," Trice whispered.

He leaned forward to press a kiss to her waiting mouth. When he pulled back, she smiled the kind of smile he wished he could capture and keep in his pocket as a ward against the next frustrating request or tough battle. If he had any talent with a brush, he'd paint her himself.

"I thought it might be nice if I could spend a little time with all of you in the evenings, as well?" he suggested. "It might give me a chance to ease into things."

"That's a lovely idea, though you may change your mind after a few nights in a row," she warned. "They can be a handful."

"They're worth it," he said simply. Then, he bent down and touched his forehead to hers. "As are you."

"And you, my love," she whispered in return, her voice rough and yet sweet in his ear.

She inhaled shakily, the hand not caught within his rising up to cup his cheek. Rylen's chest expanded until he felt as if he might explode. He tilted his head slightly and claimed her lips in a soft kiss, his promise ringing in his ears.

His path was set. And for the first time, he thought he just might succeed. Might defeat the beast that held him captive. Now, if only that darkspawn magister would cooperate, he could get on with things.

With his life.

With his love.

With his _family_.

**Author's Note:**

> Look for me on [Tumblr](http://ellenembee.tumblr.com) for screenshots of characters and tidbits of information. Ask me about my characters - I'd love to talk with you. :)
> 
> Comments, kudos and con-crit welcome!


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